The Juvie Three

by Gordon Korman

  “Right—uh—I wasn’t sure where to check in.”

  She reaches into her pocket and produces an ID tag matching her own. “Bart Cranston wimped out, gutless wonder. He says he has a cold, but the truth is he doesn’t want his lacrosse buddies calling him ‘nursie.’ The plastic opens up so you can write your name.”

  Gecko takes the tag and clips it to his shirt. “Thanks.” He glances over at Healy. “What happened to this guy?”

  Roxanne shakes her head sadly. “Mugged, probably. He was half naked when he turned up here. No wallet, no driver’s license, deep concussion. They’re not even sure he’s ever going to wake up.”

  Gecko feels his core body temperature drop twenty degrees. Never wake up? So they’re not murderers, but this is just as bad, maybe even worse!

  Roxanne picks up on his agitation. “A word of advice,” she says kindly. “Get a grip. None of these people are in the hospital because they feel great. If every sad case upsets you this much, maybe the volunteer gig isn’t for you.”

  All Gecko can think of is escape. He can’t stay here and look at the poor group leader for one more second—especially not when his distress is so obvious. If Roxanne can see it, any nurse or doctor might be able to put two and two together and realize that Gecko knows more than he’s saying about the mystery patient.

  “I—I gotta get back to school!” And he flees.

  “Hey,” she calls after him, “I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

  But Gecko is already sailing past the nurses’ station for the exit. He ignores the elevators, opting for six flights of stairs—anything to put more distance between himself and what he, Arjay, and Terence have done.

  The blocks back to school seem longer and even less friendly as he pounds down the street. Even in Atchison—a convicted criminal locked up with hundreds of the same—Gecko never felt that he himself was a bad person.

  Until now.

  He roars into English class just as the teacher is shutting the door.

  “Nice of you to join us, Gecko.”

  “Sorry,” Gecko rasps, collapsing into a chair.

  He’s never been sorrier.

  Terence glares at the clock, trying to move the hands with the power of his mind. Never could he have imagined how long a class can last when you stick around for the whole thing. Years. Centuries.

  He looks at his fellow students. These sheep, these mice, just sit there and take it. Of course, he’s sitting right with them. There’s a good reason for that. Hanging around stairwells and bathrooms would increase his chances of running into DeAndre, who he stood up last night. On top of everything else that went wrong, he left the kid with the razor-cut dollar sign standing on Second Avenue like he was waiting for a train.

  True, there’s an explanation. But not one he can give to DeAndre or anybody else. When someone has that kind of info, they’ve got power over you. You don’t let that happen. Besides, a kid like DeAndre isn’t interested in explanations. All he’ll see is that he was dissed.

  Not that Terence Florian is a wuss. But this is DeAndre’s home turf, where he can call out his dogs. Around here, Terence’s only dogs are Gecko and Arjay, and they’re about as gangster as Dora the Explorer. Vámanos. What a waste. Arjay could be a crew all by himself. But despite his credentials, the big kid has no taste for street life.

  The final bell is a hymn to freedom. Terence is the first one out the door, where a very powerful grip clamps on to his shoulder. Arjay, taking no chances, is waiting for him.

  Terence is disgusted. “I said I was coming, didn’t I? If I wanted to blow I would’ve done it last night.”

  “I trust you implicitly,” the big boy tells him without a hint of irony.

  Gecko is pacing just inside the main doors. Even from a distance they can tell that the ninth grader’s face is green.

  “I saw him.”

  “Healy?” Arjay demands.

  Fighting back tears, Gecko brings them up to speed on his visit to the hospital. “They don’t even know who he is. They’ve got him listed as John Doe.”

  Terence is thoughtful. “If they have no clue who they’ve got, then they also have no clue who’s on the loose because of it.”

  Gecko bristles. “He might never wake up, and you don’t even care!”

  “I do so care,” Terence defends himself. “But I also care that we don’t get busted.”

  “The plan is still the same,” Arjay decides. “We’re in this with Healy. We have to believe he’s going to come out of it.”

  Gecko takes the volunteer badge out of his pocket. “This gets me onto his floor to keep an eye on him. The minute he wakes up, we have to be there to apologize and set things straight.”

  Arjay takes a deep breath. “If we play our cards right, no one will even notice he’s missing.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Where’s Doug?” asks Jerry, in the B.I.D. office above the Chinese restaurant.

  Arjay struggles for nonchalance as he zips his coveralls. “Oh—running some errands.”

  Terence helps out by changing the subject. “Who’s on garbage squad with us today?”

  “A couple of the Sisters of Mercy went down to Atlantic City with the contents of the collection plate. Sweet gals, lousy blackjack players.”

  Terence drags himself downstairs with the others, and they join the nuns on the crowded avenue.

  He sweeps up an apple core, nose wrinkling with distaste. Arjay and Gecko act so high and mighty. Like they’re the only ones who feel bad about what’s happened to Healy.

  Do they think I’m such a rotten person that I’m happy the poor guy’s lying like a carrot in a hospital bed?

  Healy may be a jackass do-gooder, but nobody deserves that.

  The events of the previous night come flooding back like a recurring bad dream. If those two had minded their own business, Healy never would have been on that fire escape in the first place.

  And DeAndre and I would be splitting the take from those iPods. Savagely, he flicks a cigar butt down a sewer grating. Time for a bathroom break. First of many.

  The restroom at Starbucks is empty. Too bad. A long line to get in kills even more time. As he opens the door, he’s bumped from behind and catapulted inside. He bounces off the wall and recovers in time to see DeAndre flipping the lock.

  Terence says the first thing that comes to his mind: “I can explain—”

  But DeAndre is already reaching inside his jacket for his knife. Terence hurls himself onto the bigger boy’s back, imprisoning the attacker’s arms against his sides.

  Undaunted, the razor-cut teen backs up and slams him against the hand dryer, which begins blowing loudly.

  “Come on, man!” Terence shouts into the roar. “You’re going to mess me up over a little mistake? There were circumstances!”

  Wham! DeAndre drives him into the dryer again, and Terence sees stars. This time, the device falls off the wall.

  “We’ll do it again, man! Next time it’ll be different!”

  “You mean next time you’re going to show up?” DeAndre snarls.

  “You’ve got to understand,” Terence pleads. “You know I’m on community service. There are people in my face! It’s the price of doing business—it could be you one day.”

  Something about this makes sense to the razor-cut boy. The struggling subsides.

  “Keep talking, yo.”

  Terence takes a chance and hops down, releasing his opponent. “I’ll make it up to you. Next time, seventy-thirty split, your favor.”

  “How about a hundred-zero split?” DeAndre proposes darkly. “Here’s how it’s going to go down: you tell me the plan, and I hit the store with my crew. You get nothing. That’s your penalty for last night.”

  Terence swallows a protest. Being cut out is bad enough. But when it’s your own score, that’s cold. It brings up some unpleasant memories from Chicago. Still, from the depths of his despair, he senses an opening.

  “Okay. But then we’re squ
are. And from now on, I’m down with your crew.”

  DeAndre scowls. “Does your mouth ever stop working?”

  Terence smiles endearingly. “What do you care, dog, so long as it’s working for you?”

  The new routine consists of trying to create the impression that the old routine is still in place. The boys follow their established schedule to the letter. They have one-sided conversations with the absent Healy to convince anyone who might be listening that they are still supervised. Mrs. Liebowitz never seems to notice that when they say, “Meet you downstairs, Mr. Healy,” the group leader himself never appears.

  “Dumb old bag never shuts up about how she’s keeping an eye on us,” is Terence’s analysis. “Guess she should be keeping an eye on Healy.”

  Actually, their relationship with their neighbor from across the hall seems to be improving. At least Mrs. Liebowitz no longer fights with Arjay when he helps her carry her groceries up and her garbage down.

  Gecko visits Healy at Yorkville Medical Center every chance he gets. The news is not good, but it isn’t bad either. According to Roxanne Fitzner, the doctors say the coma doesn’t appear to be deepening, and the brain activity is strong.

  Roxanne seems to be at the hospital more than her home and school combined. “I’m a professional volunteer,” she explains to Gecko. “My dad makes like, a gazillion dollars, and he gives absolutely nothing back to society. So I do everything I can to square up our family.”

  Gecko can’t confirm her father’s income, but he’s never once been to the hospital without finding her there. She has an interest in Healy because she has an interest in every patient on the floor. Like Professor Belvedere, who lectured on high-level particle physics at Columbia but since his car accident doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast thirty seconds before. Or Mrs. Gillespie, who feels fine except that she’s become suddenly left-handed after getting a puck in the chin at a New York Rangers game.

  One advantage of hanging out with Roxanne—Gecko is instantly established as a member of the school volunteer program. The nurses simply assume that any teenager with the blond girl is supposed to be there. His badge—which now reads Gecko Smith—opens the security doors, and he’s got the run of the storage closet where the lab coats are kept. Not even in his own home has Gecko ever experienced such total acceptance. Too bad this can’t be his community service instead of the B.I.D. It seems a lot more worthwhile than sweeping up candy wrappers on Second Avenue. Probably more fun too, except that when Gecko’s at the hospital, he can’t escape his crushing remorse over what’s happened to Healy.

  “You’re a sensitive person,” Roxanne says approvingly. “You really feel for these patients, especially John Doe. Just remember rule number one: get a grip. You can’t let yourself become personally involved.”

  Too late for that. He’s already personally involved in pushing the guy off a fire escape. As for her rule—Gecko hasn’t had much of a grip on his life since Reuben first saw him behind the wheel of that go-kart.

  For at least the twentieth time, he leans right into the group leader’s pale face, looking for some sign of life, and finds nothing.

  “Come on, Mr. Healy,” he whispers. “You’ve got to try harder!”

  The electric guitar drops into Arjay’s hands from the heavens.

  Well, not really, but that’s how it seems at first. He’s in the school cafeteria, polishing off a truly disappointing tuna-salad sandwich, when the instrument is lowered into his arms.

  Mr. Cantor, the music teacher, smiles down at him. “Come on, try it out.”

  Arjay plays a few experimental chords. He’s not plugged in, of course, so he makes very little sound. But he’s encouraged to find the frets exactly where they’re supposed to be. The strings are looser than on his acoustic. He strums harder and faster. It’s easy to see how rock guitarists slam out power chords. He replicates a Hendrix riff—badly—warbling the whammy bar.

  “You’re a natural,” Mr. Cantor tells him.

  Arjay grins at him. “I thought teachers were supposed to be honest.”

  “Never held an electric guitar in your life, not even jacked in, so you can’t hear yourself—I’d say you’re doing okay.”

  “It feels comfortable,” Arjay admits, strumming the opening to “Iron Man,” which never sounds right on acoustic.

  “A few weeks of practice, and you’ll be the star of my stage band.”

  Arjay’s smile disappears. “I told you—I can’t.”

  “Your after-school job?” The teacher sits down beside him on the cafeteria bench, his expression kind. “Listen, Arjay. I did a little checking on you at the office. I know you’ve had problems with the law, and you’re in some kind of group home. But if you’ll let me talk to this Mr. Healy—”

  Arjay sits forward in alarm. “You can’t do that!”

  “I’ve worked with kids like you before,” Mr. Cantor assures him. “Trust me, getting you involved in normal, constructive activities is in everybody’s interest here. He’ll just have to tweak your schedule to get in an hour practice maybe two or three times a week—”

  Arjay is adamant. “It’s impossible!”

  “He may seem overly strict to you, but when I explain—”

  “You’re not listening!” the big boy interrupts. “Promise you won’t call!”

  The music teacher looks bewildered, but he agrees. “All right.”

  Arjay stands up and hands back the guitar. “Thanks anyway.”

  Mr. Cantor makes no move to accept it. “How about this? We’ll meet every day on your lunch hour. In the music room.”

  “I still can’t be in your band,” Arjay tells him.

  “I’m a teacher. You’re a kid with talent. I want to work with you.” Mr. Cantor holds out his hand. “Rock and roll?”

  The big boy shakes it. “Rock and roll.”

  When the trio walks into group therapy on Thursday afternoon, Gecko feels certain that Dr. Avery can read the guilt in their faces. But amazingly, the supermodel therapist picks up on nothing and focuses most of the hour on Casey Wagner, who has unveiled her newly revised top ten list of ways to die. (Space junk out, spontaneous human combustion in.)

  Dr. Avery even compliments Gecko, Arjay, and Terence on their punctuality. The trio exchange knowing looks. It’s Healy who was chronically late. The three of them are so paranoid about calling attention to their living arrangements that they follow every rule to the letter.

  “That’s where we’re going to get busted,” Terence warns. “Nobody is this good. It’s unnatural, man.”

  It’s true that the Alma K. Walker High School has never seen such conscientious students. Healy’s unfixable bowling trophy, now duct-taped together, presides over some major homework battles. It’s hard enough for Gecko and Arjay to get theirs done. Sitting on Terence and making him work sucks every ounce of energy out of them. It usually comes down to physical violence, and keeping a fight like that quiet takes even more energy than the fight itself.

  A low profile is absolutely vital. Scrutiny—from neighbors, teachers, social workers, doctors, and even other teenagers—is the one thing they must avoid at all costs. No one can be allowed to reach the point where they decide to complain to Healy. There is no Healy.

  “We were better off in jail,” Terence moans from the depths of his algebra book. “At least nobody expects you to be smart. Think they’re solving for x in lockup?”

  Arjay is relentless. “We’re not going back inside because you’re too lazy to do what every other kid is doing right now.”

  “I’m not being lazy,” Terence defends himself. “I’m just being me.”

  How can he ever explain it? Even when his old man used to threaten him with a copper pipe, nobody could make him study. They could force him physically into a classroom, but that was where the learning ended. To expect him to do this now, after a lifetime of slacking off, is like asking the guy who sweeps up in the missile silo to defuse a nuclear warhead. Right place, wrong
person. It’s not his gig.

  The reading is pure misery. His teachers must all think he’s got nothing better to do than sit around with his nose in some book! And to make matters worse, Jumbo stands over his shoulder, watching him do it.

  “No wonder you hate this stuff, man!” the big boy exclaims. “You can barely read!”

  His frustration with the work, and anger at Arjay for rubbing it in his face, is like nitric acid and glycerin sloshing around inside Terence. He wheels in his chair and starts throwing punches at his tormentor.

  It takes Arjay and Gecko to pin him down. “I’m trying to help you!” Arjay pants, pressing Terence’s shoulders into the carpet. “If you don’t get better at reading, it’s never going to stop being torture!”

  “Listen to yourself, man,” Terence mumbles resentfully. “You sound like a teacher. Don’t you get it? Our jailer is gone, so now we’re jailing ourselves. Even Healy wasn’t as Nazi as you guys.”

  The whole world is upside down. With Healy in the hospital, the three finally have a chance to have some fun. Instead, they’re waking up early, going to school and community service and therapy, and cleaning the apartment in case Ms. Vaughn pulls a surprise inspection.

  That makes the least sense of all. “Listen, if that pickle-faced buster shows up here, we’re all dead, no matter how clean the place is. You think she’s going to say, ‘Three felons are on the loose, but, hey, you could eat out of their toilet bowl, so no harm, no foul’?”

  He listens raptly to Gecko’s hospital reports, rooting for Healy to come home and get Arjay and Gecko off his back. But the group leader is still vegging, so the rat race goes on with no end in sight.

  On Tuesday afternoon, they show up at the Business Improvement District to find the electronics store sealed off with yellow crime scene tape.

  Never, not even when they shipped him from Chicago to that East Bumwipe Island, has Terence experienced such despair. Sure, he already knew DeAndre’s crew would be taking the place down. But to actually see it—your plan working perfectly, with you on the outside—it feels like a death in the family.