by Anthony Izzo
He proceeded to the kitchen to find his father reading the Buffalo Evening News, the paper draped across the table. He bunched his nose and squinted, trying to make out the small print.
“Little late, sport.”
“Lost track of the time,” Jack said.
Jack Harding Sr. crossed his legs, his wool dress pants hiking up and revealing his hairless calf just above the dress sock. Tall and rangy, he had played high school basketball, but the once trim athletic body had given way to a saggy paunch in the middle.
Dad smoothed his remaining hair. “You were supposed to be in by six.”
“I told Mom I lost track of time.”
“Maybe we should get you a watch for Christmas.”
“Maybe not,” Jack said.
His mother entered, slid on oven mitts, and removed a blue roaster from the stove.
“He said he was up at the Steadman place with a new kid in town. Imagine our son hanging out with the rich and famous,” she said.
Jack rolled his eyes.
“The Steadman Estate. Come on, Jack,” his father said.
“I’m not kidding.”
Dad folded his paper and placed it on the table. “I did hear someone bought the place,” he said.
“You don’t believe that cockamamie story, do you?”
Leave it to Mom to come up with a word like cockamamie.
“Let’s hear what our boy has to say.”
Jack pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, while his mother hovered around like an angry hornet in a holding pattern. He told them the afternoon’s events, starting with Ronnie’s near demise at Vinnie’s hands and ending with the limo ride home.
Dad leaned back in his chair and looked at Jack, sniffing for lies.
Jack added, “His mom pulled me aside and asked if I would look out for Ronnie. She said to apologize for missing my curfew but she needed to talk to me. And that I had great parents because of my good manners.” He was amazed how easy the lies slipped off his tongue.
“Don’t let it happen again,” his dad said.
“I suppose being a few minutes late didn’t hurt anything. But next time call,” his mom said.
He wanted to ask them who had abducted his real parents and replaced them with aliens. Ordinarily, he was looking at a minimum of a day’s grounding for being late, but for some reason the governor had dialed in a pardon at the last moment.
“Go wash up. The chicken’s about done,” Mom said.
Jack left the kitchen and proceeded to the bathroom, where he washed his hands with a blocky bar of Dial. As he scrubbed, he thought of the nice warm rush Cassie Winter’s touch had given him, that it was a little scary. And the way she told him not to worry about being in trouble. Did she have anything to do with Mom and Dad’s demeanor when he came home?
Drying his hands, he dismissed the thought and looked forward to digging into some chicken and stuffing.
CHAPTER 6
At seven-fifty, ten minutes before homeroom, Chris appeared at Jack’s locker, knocking on the open door. Jack was stuffing his boots and coat into the locker and looked up to see Chris grinning down at him.
“When are you going to get rid of these pictures?” Chris asked.
The inside of Jack’s locker was adorned with a Spider Man poster, a shot of Ricky Henderson sliding into second, and a photo of Christie Brinkley in a white bikini. He had swiped that one from his mother’s Cosmo, and so far it had gone unnoticed by the Brampton faculty.
“Baseball’s a fairy sport, you know,” Chris said.
“Fuck you, Watson.” That retort was usually reserved for when someone said, “No shit, Sherlock,” but somehow it fit the moment.
“You hear about the body they found?”
“Who’s they?”
“The cops, you doof.”
“Where?”
“By the Steadman Estate. My dad’s got a police scanner.” Chris switched his stack of books from one arm to the other. “How was the mansion?”
“Huge. Amazing.”
“That’s it?”
“His mom was pretty hot.”
Chris snickered, a low conspiratorial chuckle. “Really?”
“Seriously.”
“I might have to go up there myself.”
“So what about this murder?”
Jack pulled out his math book, two spiral notebooks, and a Bic pen. He tucked the books against his side and slid the pen into his back pocket. Anyone who was remotely cool stopped carrying a book bag back in fifth grade. Instead, guys carried books with one arm, against the hip. Girls carried them across the chest, perhaps hoping for some eighth grader to come along and offer to carry them. The only kid holding on to the book bag was Paul, who took daily ribbings for his Dungeons and Dragons backpack.
“Some guy’s car ran out of gas. They found him down the road from his car, all torn up. It was on Wake Up, Western New York this morning, too.”
“Man.”
It gave him a serious shiver because he had just been at the Steadman place, and John’s warning echoed in his mind. The one to stay in the mansion proper, as he had put it. Jack hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but with someone getting killed, it made him want to stay away from Ronnie Winter and his massive home.
“So his mom’s hot?”
“Get off it already,” Jack said.
Paul hurried down the hall, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was breathing in short gasps when he arrived at Chris’s side, his hair still wet and frozen just above his forehead.
“Hear about the murder?” Paul asked.
“No, we live under a rock like your mom.”
“Up yours,” Paul said. “We’ll talk about it more at lunch.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to homeroom.”
“You’ve still got five minutes, Paul. Relax,” Jack said.
“You guys should get moving, too,” Paul said.
“Yes, Mother,” Chris said.
Paul flipped him the bird and jogged down the hall.
Jack closed his locker and clicked the Masterlock shut. He and Chris walked down the hall, parting and saying they’d see each other at lunch. Chris and Paul had Mrs. Jason, while Jack and Emma had Mrs. Eckerd. Jack also got stuck with Vinnie in his homeroom, but having Emma made up for it, and it was even better than having Chris or Paul. He had Emma all to himself and Chris and Paul didn’t care, but it was hot shit to him.
Jack entered the classroom, passing the wooden sign marked SHALOM that Mrs. Eckerd kept on the door. He slid into his desk, fifth row near the blackboard where the smell of chalk dust hung in the air. He looked over to Emma’s desk, still empty. She had been out on Friday, and whatever sickness had struck her, she was still busy fighting it off.
The class filtered in and took their seats, Sue Sneed sitting her melon head in front of Jack and blocking out the board. She didn’t get the name Six-Foot Sue for nothing. Steven Padowski sat next to Jack, his frizzy red hair sticking up like weeds in a garden. The kid always smelled vaguely of Swiss cheese, earning him the nickname Cheesy Stevie.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Hi, Stevie.”
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting here. What’s it look like?”
“Want to come over and play little cars?”
“I’ve got to help my mom with some chores.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
Dodged that bullet for another day, he thought.
Vinnie Palermo strolled in, dressed in a black T-shirt and steel-toe work boots that he called his “ass kickers.” He liked to kick kids in the shins when they weren’t looking, usually between change of classes. Jack slid lower in his seat, as if Vinnie might not see him, but it had the opposite effect, as Vinnie strutted over to the desk.
“I owe you for tripping me yesterday. If that cop didn’t show up I would’ve cut you.”
Cheesy Stevie leaned across his desk, watching Vinnie and Jack.
/>
“What are you looking at, Cheesy?” Vinnie said. Stevie took out his math book and started flipping pages.
“I’ll see you after school,” Vinnie said, poking Jack in the chest. He strutted away.
The rest of the class filtered in, and the bell rang, signaling the start of homeroom. The old radiators hissed and the room heated up, making sweat trickle down Jack’s sides. Mrs. Eckerd walked in, stopped at her desk, and pumped lotion from the dispenser. Rubbing it into her hands, she turned to the class and reminded them that the Christmas dance was next Friday. Jack didn’t hear much of the details because he was figuring out a way to avoid Vinnie after school. It would eat at him all day.
The classroom door opened and Ronnie Winter stumbled in, dropping his books on the floor with a clatter. The class burst into laughter and despite his black mood, Jack joined in.
Ronnie stooped to pick up his books and Vinnie chimed in, “Oh, great. The fat faggot is in our class.” Mrs. Eckerd frowned but said nothing. It was the general consensus of Brampton Middle’s students that Vinnie scared even the teachers.
“Why are you late? You’re Ronald, right?”
“Ronnie, and I have a note.”
Ronnie straightened up, his books clasped against his chest. With his free hand, he reached around and dug in his back pocket until he pulled out a folded piece of paper. Mrs. Eckerd read it over, clucked her tongue in disapproval, and tossed the note in the trash can.
“I’ll excuse you because it’s your first day, but don’t be late again. Sit down.”
“Okay,” he said.
Ronnie approached, the jumble of books in his arms, and sat in the desk to Jack’s right.
“The two fags are sitting next to each other,” Vinnie said.
“Vincent.”
“My name’s Vinnie, got it?”
“Settle down,” Mrs. Eckerd said.
“Never.”
Ronnie slid into his seat, but not before dropping his social studies book again.
“This is cool. You and me next to each other,” Ronnie said.
A purple smear dotted the corner of his mouth.
“Something on your mouth.” Jack pointed to his own mouth to indicate the location of the stain.
Ronnie licked his finger and scrubbed the jelly off with his fingertip. “You’re always looking out for me. I would have looked like a real ass with that on my face all day. Right next to each other, I can’t believe it.”
“This is sure turning into a wonderful day,” Jack said.
It was about to get even better.
CHAPTER 7
Lunchtime started out quietly enough.
Jack, Paul, and Chris took their seats at the round table, joined by Rick Lopez and Donny Bannon. Rick and Donny were okay to join in a pickup football game, but they weren’t regulars in the group, and they never would be. They were fringe kids, and no matter how hard they tried, they would not be part of the inner circle. Jack ignored them.
Chatter echoed through the cafeteria, rising to a low roar as the room filled to capacity. Jack looked out the courtyard windows to see the snow still blowing hard. The paintings of Jefferson, Edison, and King that hung near the windows were oblivious of it all, but Jack watched the snow, imagining monster snow hills and snowball fights.
“What do you have good?” Chris asked.
Jack opened his brown bag and looked inside to find the same old Monday lunch: peanut butter sandwich, Fritos, two Oreos, and a juice box. Mom was nothing if not predictable. Chris opened his lunch and took out two foil-wrapped sandwiches and two bananas.
“What did Mommy pack for you?” Chris asked.
“I packed this myself,” Paul said.
Paul unsnapped the latches on the lunch box and pulled out a bag of Lay’s chips and a can of grape Faygo.
“That’s real nutritious,” Jack said.
“I can eat whatever I want. Pretty cool if you ask me,” Paul said.
From the look on his face, Jack knew it wasn’t very cool with him.
“Want half my sandwich?” Jack said.
“Yeah, you can have one of these if you want it.” Chris held up one of the sandwiches and waved it back and forth.
“Nah, this is fine.”
“Take it,” said Chris. “It’ll put some meat on your bones.” Chris held out the sandwich, and this time Paul took it.
“Sometimes you’re all right, too-tall.” He unwrapped the sandwich, took a bite, and said, “Hear anything else about that murder?”
“Not since last period. You know what we should do,” Chris said.
“Here we go,” Jack said.
“I bet Ronnie would let us up to his place, and if he did, we could check out a real crime scene. I bet we’d see some leftover blood.”
“Ding-dong, you’re wrong, bub,” Paul said.
Jack nearly inhaled his sandwich, sucking in a big breath to laugh at Paul’s choice of words. He had a million goofy words, all left over from the 1950s, words like bub, buster, and neat-o.
“What’s so funny?” Paul asked.
“Nothing, bub.”
“Bub. I don’t know where you come up with these, Paulie,” Chris said.
“As I was saying. Last night’s snow would have covered up any blood. It’s long gone by now.”
“He’s right,” Jack said.
“Yeah, but how often do you get to see something like that?” Chris said.
“Count me out,” Paul said.
“It’s a bad idea,” Jack said.
“Don’t tell me you’re turning chicken like Paul,” Chris said.
“No.”
“Be a man, then,” Chris said.
Jack didn’t like the idea of going into the woods, but his fear didn’t compare to the ragging he would take from Chris if he didn’t go.
“Come on, Jack.”
“Maybe I’ll ask Ronnie about going out there,” Jack said.
“Excellent.” He punched Jack in the arm.
“Easy, you damn gorilla.”
Vinnie appeared at the table, working a toothpick in his mouth, from one side to the other. Joe Leary stood next to him with his arms at his sides, the hands curled into fists. It worried Jack that Harry Cross was with them, because Harry was the type of kid who tied firecrackers to cats’ tails. He had that blank look in his eyes, like a guy in a mug shot, where the wiring in his head was not exactly up to code. Harry was thumbing through a copy of Hot Rod, a leggy blonde in a red bikini sprawled across a Camaro on the cover.
“Hey, girls,” Vinnie said. “We’ll be waiting for you after school.”
“Get lost, Palermo,” Chris said.
“The Jolly Green Giant can’t always protect you,” Vinnie said, looking away from Chris.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Jack said.
“You should be. I’ll squash ya.”
He curled up his fist, lifted his arm over his head, and swung it down, smashing Jack’s sandwich. Peanut butter squirted from the sides like a dead beetle’s guts. Harry Cross doubled over laughing, the patches of acne on his cheeks turning redder from laughter. Leary said, “He’ll squash you all right!”
Paul sank lower in his chair, looking like he wanted to pass through the seat by osmosis. Chris sat staring, his gaze fixed on Vinnie’s hand, still planted in Jack’s wounded sandwich.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Chris said.
“I’m gonna do that to him and that other fat ass after school.”
Jack looked at his sandwich, at Vinnie’s greasy paw stuck in the middle of the bread, and thought of his mother packing the lunch for him with the utmost care. His stomach had been growling since third period and now the king of the assholes had ruined his lunch. That angered him more than anything. He wanted to stuff the sandwich down Vinnie’s throat, and that was his second choice of locations.
Vinnie took his hand from the sandwich, grinning as if he were lord of the cafeteria.
“You wrecked my fucking sandwich. T
hat was my sandwich.”
Jack balled up his fist, and pushing the chair away, he thrust upward, popping Vinnie right on the chin. Vinnie’s head snapped back reflexively and a look of shock crossed his face. Apparently one did not do such things to the lord of the cafeteria.
Leary and Cross started toward Jack, and Vinnie reached out, grabbing a handful of Jack’s shirt and twisting it. Chris sat staring, mouth open, his sandwich with a crescent bite taken out of it still in his hand.
By now the kids at other tables stopped talking, and the cafeteria was as silent as Grant’s Tomb. Students turned in their seats to get a better look.
“Now you’re really dead,” Vinnie said.
Vinnie pulled back, ready to deliver a haymaker, but Jack saw Mrs. Williams coming at them, her breasts swinging back and forth under her turtleneck sweater. She got her arm between the two boys just as Jack closed his eyes, ready for the blow that would send him into the stratosphere. Mrs. Williams smelled like cheap perfume and cigarettes.
“Cut it out. Now,” she said.
Vinnie took another halfhearted lunge at Jack, but Mrs. Williams had stepped between them, and he backed away.
“Get going,” she told Vinnie. “I should give you both detention.”
She turned her head and looked at Vinnie, no doubt giving him a menacing look. Vinnie rubbed his chin where Jack had tagged him.
“We’ll see you after school,” Vinnie said.
“You’ll do no such thing. Get back to your table.” She shooed him away.
With this crisis over, Mrs. Williams hurried to another table, where Ben Childs was preparing to launch a tinfoil ball at Theresa Gardner’s head.
Jack returned to his seat, lamenting his beaten sandwich and the confrontation sure to come when the bell rang.
“I’m a dead man,” he said.
“Sorry, man. I’d back you up but I have practice after school,” Chris said.
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
The last three periods went by faster than Jack would have liked. Mrs. Randolph’s math class, which normally made eternal damnation seem appealing, breezed right on by. When he wanted the class to drag, it wouldn’t.
After physical science, the last period of the day, Jack returned to his locker and drew out the process of putting on hats, gloves, and boots. The chatter in the hallway had died out as the bused kids hurried for the doors, and those who were anxious to get outside fled with visions of snowball fights in their heads. Jack shut the locker and Gene the Janitor pushed his wide broom down the hall, slumping over as if the broom were the only thing keeping him up. Jack guessed him to be at least eighty years old.