“Well, I guess we’ll call and change our reservation to three,” Emory said.
“Definitely,” Myka agreed brightly, as she led Haylee over to the makeup chair.
“Oh, Dalton,” Emory said. “Nass ran into a little trouble earlier, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. We were watching the apartment demolition and—”
Dalton raised a hand, waving away his explanation. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I like to hear my excuses direct from the source, thank you very much.”
Everyone laughed, imagining the trouble Nass was going to get into when he showed up late.
“Well, try to take it easy on him,” Emory said.
“Shall we?” Zhai asked Kate. The unspoken truce that he and Emory had forged felt good, but he still didn’t want to make Haylee uncomfortable.
“Bye,” everyone called as Zhai and Kate headed out of the room, hand in hand.
Zhai was eager to get going—his driver was waiting outside to take them back to Kate’s train car home, where Zhai had lots of exciting surprises in store.
* * *
It was night by the time Rick stood at the second-floor window of the Starlite Cinema, his dad’s newest downtown acquisition, watching Clarisse make her way across the parking lot. That’s my kind of girl, he thought.
Up until this point in his life, the only place he’d really been able to be himself was on the football field. The rest of the world was riddled with all kinds of etiquette, rules he didn’t like and didn’t care to understand. He was supposed to watch out for people’s feelings, help the less fortunate, be polite, and tolerate those who were weaker than him. To him, it was all a bunch of nonsense. The code of selflessness was like Chinese to him—some complex language he could never hope to understand.
But with Clarisse, everything was simple. Sometimes they desired each other. Sometimes they hated each other. But they were always eager to use each other, and to Rick, that made sense.
As perverse as it would seem to other people, Rick felt like Clarisse, even though she was a dumb Flats rat, was the only person in town who got him. With her, he could be his truest, purest, most animalistic self. She seemed to love it—and he almost loved her for it.
Once she’d disappeared from sight—heading, he guessed, back to the Flats—he took out his phone and made three calls. The first was to the florist, to send some lame bouquet to Maggie. Even though he had little interest in her these days, she was still head cheerleader and homecoming queen, and he still wanted her on his arm for social functions, so he knew he had to appease her with some sort of pathetic gesture. The second call was to order two large loaded pizzas. He was famished. The third call was to his best friend, Bran Goheen.
“What’s up, slick Rick?” Bran answered.
“I’m downtown. Remember, I told you my dad bought the Starlite? Well, I snagged a key. The whole second floor is vacant.”
Rick looked around. The room he was in was a wide-open loft space with ancient wood floors, high ceilings, and exposed brick walls. On the other side of the room, four high windows looked down on Middleburg’s main street.
“This place is pretty cool. We should have a party or something. Come down—bring the guys. I already ordered pizza.”
Bran hesitated. “I don’t know, man. It’s Valentine’s Day. I’ll come down, but I think most of the guys have dates.”
Rick shook his head, feeling his ever-present anger rising again. What a world! All anyone seemed to care about was hugging and kissing and being fake with one another. He couldn’t even understand his own friends sometimes. “Buncha wusses,” he grumbled. “You’re coming down though, right?”
“Sure, bro. I was in the car anyway. I’m like a block away. Be right there.”
As Rick stared out the window at the parking lot, he caught sight of something that stirred his feelings even more than Clarisse had.
“All right, see you then. I gotta run,” he said and ended the call.
In the parking lot below, one of the Flatliners, Emory, was getting out of the car with a couple of girls—probably heading for the back door of Rosa’s Italian restaurant. And, Rick knew, Emory was the one whose apartment building was supposed to have been torn down today. He was the perfect Flatliner to make an example of, Rick thought, and he laughed out loud, hardly able to believe his good luck.
A few months ago, he would have held back, afraid of what Zhai might say if he started trouble, but these days the so-called Topper leader spent half his time hanging out with those Flatliner losers and looking for Raphael Kain. As far as Rick and the other Toppers were concerned, Zhai was a traitor—and most of the guys were now taking orders from Rick. That meant there was nothing to prevent him from going down there and unleashing every delicious drop of his hatred on that little Flats punk Emory. And, Rick thought gleefully, that was exactly what he was going to do.
“Time to earn that extra hundred bucks,” he muttered to himself, and hurried toward the stairs.
* * *
Myka had made an ironic mix of the fifteen cheesiest love songs of all time in honor of Valentine’s Day. As Emory pulled his dad’s beat-up Subaru station wagon into the parking lot behind Rosa’s Trattoria, Myka and Haylee were singing along at the top of their lungs to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”
“All right, divas. We’re here,” he said as they pulled into the parking space, and he killed the stereo.
They all got out of the car and walked together across the dimly lit alleyway that ran behind Middleburg’s main street. As they went, Myka took Emory’s hand. Haylee sidled up to him on the other side and gave him a big bear hug around the waist, and they kept on moving. Ever since that traumatic night when Zhai, under the Obies’ mind control, had almost killed her, Haylee was like a different person. Her former snotty attitude was gone. She obeyed her parents, and she clung to Emory as she hadn’t done since she was a toddler.
“Thanks for being my Valentine, guys,” she said, and Emory and Myka exchanged a smile.
“No problem, kiddo,” Emory said. “You can hang with us any time.”
Just then, a rocket sizzled across the sky and exploded in a brilliant fireworks display of spinners, snakes, and spirals. Haylee stopped and pointed up. “Oh—wow!” was all she said as the dazzling display was reflected in her eyes.
Emory looked up, too, at the scattering of fire sizzling across the heavens, just as a bright green explosion burst above them. It seemed so close that it might shower them in magical emerald embers.
Haylee squealed with delight and giggled.
At that moment, Emory caught movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced to his right to see a nondescript metal door on a building a few doors down drifting shut. Then, he saw a shadowed figure moving toward him. There were no lights in the parking lot, but in the glow cast by the next fireworks explosion he recognized the intruder: it was Rick Banfield.
“Guys, why don’t you go inside and get us a table?” he said quickly, trying his best to sound casual. He had no idea why Rick was lurking in an alley after dark, but whatever was going on, Emory had to make sure his sister and Myka didn’t get mixed up in it.
“No—I want to watch the fireworks!” Haylee protested.
Rick was coming closer now, and Myka followed Emory’s sight line. A look of fear crossed her face as she saw what Emory saw.
“Come on, Haylee. We have to go in,” she said quickly, grabbing Haylee’s arm and leading her toward the back door of Rosa’s.
“But . . . but . . .” Haylee objected, but Myka was stronger than she looked. She dragged Haylee all the way to the door and shoved her gently but firmly into the dimly lit hallway.
As Rosa’s door opened, Emory saw the burgundy carpeting inside, and smelled the comforting aromas of garlic and tomatoes and melted cheese. He heard the clink of
dinnerware, the bustle of the kitchen, the soft, lilting melody of a strain of classical music. He saw Myka, silhouetted in the doorway, her slender figure framed in illumination. The features of her pale, beautiful face were rendered invisible by the backlight, but he knew exactly the look of love and concern she’d be wearing as she turned back to look at him.
They had grown close since his family got evicted. At first he imagined that she would dump him, that she’d want no part of dating some loser who was basically homeless—especially when she had a decent job working after school at Morningstar, Inc., and all he had was a paper route. But she’d stood by him. And at this moment, for the first time ever, he admitted to himself that he was in love with her. What he wanted now, more than anything in the world, was to be walking into that restaurant with her, holding her hand and listening to Haylee’s stupid knock-knock jokes over a plate of steaming lasagna.
But before he could take a step toward the door, Rick emerged from the shadows, only a few feet away from him now.
“What’s up, Flatliner? I hear you’ve been signing petitions,” Rick said darkly. He cracked his knuckles. Suddenly, Emory was overcome with a feeling of blinding, electrifying rage. It was because of Rick and people like him—Toppers—that Emory’s family had to live in a garage. It was because of them that they’d had to huddle together in the cold all winter while his sister cried herself to sleep at night. It was because of them that Emory had lost the only home he’d ever known. Everything bad in his life was because of them. And here Rick was, king of the Toppers, ready to make fun of him for it.
“It’s time for you to learn that little rats like you shouldn’t be sticking their noses in places where they don’t belong, Emory.”
Emory and Rick were eye to eye now, although Emory had to stand on his tiptoes to do it. He wanted to say something back, something clever, but the rage and adrenaline coursing through his body were too strong to allow him to speak. His hands were trembling, his whole body shivering. He didn’t trust his voice not to quaver if he tried to talk.
“Emory, come on,” Myka called from the doorway. Emory glanced over at her. Thank God, at least Haylee was hidden behind the big, solid wood door, unable to see the confrontation.
“Yeah, Emory,” Rick whispered. “Go on inside with your skinny-ass Flats bitch and your little brat sister. Just don’t forget that the next time you meddle in my dad’s affairs, I’m going to take both of them and—”
“Go inside,” Emory shouted to Myka, and then his eyes flicked back to Rick’s.
“Emory, no! Come on,” Myka said, her voice rising.
“GO INSIDE!” Emory yelled. “Take Haylee and shut the door!”
This time, he was so commanding that Myka obeyed immediately. The door clapped shut, and the light and the sounds of the restaurant disappeared, leaving Emory alone in the darkness with Rick. Another rocket burst overhead, painting the shadows with an eerie red light.
“Well, well,” Rick said. “You’re a man after all. All that eyeliner and those black-painted nails of yours, I thought you were girl for sure.” He shook his head in disgust. “You people are always making things harder for my family, you know that? I can’t even stand the sight of you.”
Once again, Emory wanted to speak—a dozen retorts came to his mind—but he couldn’t. His body convulsed once more with adrenaline, and without another word he snarled and threw the first punch. It caught Rick in the eye and made him stumble back a few steps, but an instant later the Topper regrouped and was on the attack.
Emory managed to get his hands up in front of his face to block the first few blows, using the kung fu techniques that Raph had taught him. He even clipped Rick’s cheek with another punch and caught him with a good kick to the thigh. But Rick’s fists were as huge and heavy as sledge hammers, and with the next blow Emory tried to block, he felt a terrible pain in his forearm and knew instantly that it was broken. Before he could back up, Rick’s other fist blasted him directly in the face. He was aware of being in mid-air, then landing hard on the ground, the back of his head cracking against blacktop. He must have blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knew he was on his back on the grimy pavement of the alley, moving all his limbs in a desperate but futile attempt to scramble away, like he was doing a backstroke on the pavement.
An elbow fell heavily on his stomach and vomit gushed into his mouth. Choking on it, he rolled onto his side to spit, then Rick’s fist blasted into his temple, sending his head clacking off the pavement. His tongue slipped across his teeth, finding their edges no longer smooth and uniform, but broken and jagged. Two more blows hit him in the ribs, sending starbursts of pain through his chest and abdomen. Every shallow breath he took sent a sizzling lance of pain through his chest.
The world was spinning violently, and he couldn’t see anything—but whether it was because there was blood in his eyes or because he’d somehow gone blind, he didn’t know. His hands groped above his head, and he felt what had to be the edge of a Dumpster. He pushed with his legs, trying to clamber behind it, but the blows kept coming with mechanical precision, one after another after another. Someone was shouting. Someone was cursing. He was wet—with blood? Maybe urine? He didn’t know. There was no order to the spin of his mind. He thought once more of Myka, standing in the doorway of the restaurant. His last thought was of the Valentine’s Day card he was going to give her. It was in his jacket pocket, and he hoped it wasn’t crumpled.
Another firework shimmered above, like an explosion of stardust. As it faded, Emory’s mind surrendered to darkness.
Chapter 3
When Bran pulled into the parking lot behind Rosa’s Trattoria, he didn’t see Rick at first. He got out of his car and walked across the parking lot and the darkened alley at his normal ambling pace, occasionally glancing up at the fireworks. July Fourth had always been his favorite holiday as a kid, and even though he would never admit it to Rick or any of his other macho friends, he loved watching the beautiful colors tracing across the sky.
He was almost to the back door of the Starlite when he heard the sound: a rhythmic thumping, like someone dribbling a basketball, with a few grunts and curses mixed in. His heart rate quickened, and he jogged toward the sound. There was movement in the shadow of a big green Dumpster and he hurried toward it, but the sight he witnessed there made him freeze.
It was Rick, and he was kneeling over someone. There was so much blood the guy’s face was unrecognizable, but whoever it was made no effort to defend himself. He just lay there, completely limp, no more animate than a pile of dirty laundry.
For a second Bran felt like his brain had come untethered from his body and he watched, frozen with a bizarre sense of horrified detachment, as Rick cocked his fist back and brought it down once more on the distorted, unrecognizable face beneath him.
Then Bran was moving, grabbing Rick from behind, yanking him hard enough to haul his much bigger frame halfway across the alley in one mighty heave. He was talking, too, though he didn’t remember when he’d started to speak: “Rick! What the hell are you doing? Stop! Stop! What did you do?”
Rick thrashed, but Bran was so juiced with adrenaline that it took Rick a moment to shake free of his grasp.
“Get off me!” Rick shouted. “That little Flats bitch had it coming, all right, for screwing around in my father’s business.”
Bran stared down at the figure on the ground. That was one of the Flatliners? The face was so bloody and broken he couldn’t tell which one it was.
His body shivered violently, and for a second he thought he was going to throw up. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rick demanded.
“Calling an ambulance—what do you think?” Bran shouted.
Rick grabbed him and started dragging him away.
“Let go of me, Rick!”
<
br /> By now, Rick had hauled Bran into the dimly lit parking lot between his SUV and a big delivery van. Sheltered from prying eyes, he grabbed the front of Bran’s shirt and jerked him like a rag doll, so hard that his cell phone fell out of his hand.
“You listen to me, Bran. Listen carefully. You are part of this. Do you understand me?”
“We have to call, man. We don’t, and he’s going to die!”
“And what does that make you, tough guy? An accessory. Think about it. We have to get out of here.”
Bran was shaking his head.
“Yes,” Rick snarled. “We’re getting out of here.”
“No—Rick! We can’t leave him like this! What’s wrong with you?”
Rick jerked Bran again, so hard his teeth clacked together.
“You want to sell me out, Bran? You sure about that? You want your dad to lose his job? You want your parents to get tossed out of their house like a lousy Flats rat? And they’ll lose their son, too, because I’ll make damn sure everyone knows you helped me do it. Who do you think the police will believe? Jack Banfield’s son—or you?”
Bran felt a tide of remorse and desperation like he’d never felt in his life. He suddenly realized that he hated Rick, that he’d always hated him. Why had he ever been friends with this guy in the first place? Just because he could throw a football? Because he hung out with all the hot cheerleaders? At that moment, Bran would have given anything in the world for a button he could press to rewind his life, so he could do it all again and never talk to Rick Banfield. What would it matter if he never played football, or if he wasn’t popular? But there was no magical rewind button; it was too late.
And Rick was right. What good would it do anyone for Bran to end up in jail? For his father to lose his life’s work? The kid was already hurt—nothing was going to change that.
“Listen. Spike Ferrington is having a training intensive in Topeka this weekend,” Rick said. “We’re going down there until Monday when all this has blown over. Now, we’re going to stop by your house and drop your car off. I’ll follow you, then you get in with me and we roll to Topeka. Got it?”
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