The only problem is Grant is standing right in front of them, and he’s already got his phone out and is chattering away.
“Yeah, it’s three kids, I think they live here, definitely seen one of them skulking around.” Grant glares at Tank, and Tank hunches his shoulders, trying to appear smaller.
Yep. Grant remembers him.
It hadn’t really been funny, and Tank didn’t really want to get involved, but Shark had made a game of it on Wednesday night, sneaking behind Grant and stealing his keys off his belt.
Grant huffed and puffed as he chased them around the complex and then halfway down the block, as the four of them laughed and tossed the keys back and forth to one another. Shark eventually got bored and tossed the keys into an empty parking lot before heading over to Fortress Park, laughing as Grant cursed at them.
Tank found the keys later and left them by the counter in the lobby, hoping Grant would just forget about the whole thing and that Shark would move on, find another game.
Grant has definitely not forgotten.
Tank shifts awkwardly now with the full force of Grant’s stare on him. He always thought hanging out with tough guys like Shark was good for his reputation, that it meant no one would mess with him or Viv, but right now he doesn’t like how Grant’s looking at him. Like he’s a monster, an awful person.
Tank looks down at his feet.
He can’t help it if Grant hates him—some adults just do.
“Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah, it’s one of those boys, the ones always causing trouble. And two other kids. From the complex, yeah, I think so.” Grant’s listening very intently to whoever is on the other end of the phone now. He puffs out his chest as he preens. Tank can barely hear the man on the other line but he can tell the other voice is annoyed and curt. “Yeah, I can do that for you. I’ll make sure they don’t go anywhere.” He glares at the three of them where they’re all standing in front of the tractor now, awaiting whatever punishment is to come.
Great. Just great.
Tank thinks he could make it if he gets back in the community center and goes through the stairwell that connects to the West Tower, but the girl from school and that mousy Jake kid are between him and that route. He could dart around the tractor to his right—the whole community center and construction site is fenced in, but it’s just chain-link. Tank could climb that easily.
Grant continues to stare at the three of them as he makes another call. The shrill voice on the other end is familiar—it’s Old Woman Jenkins, the mean lady who owns the complex. Grant hangs up the phone and takes a step toward Tank and the others.
Instinctively Tank finds himself stepping in front of the others. They’re smaller than he is, and something about the way the girl’s lip wobbled when the flashlight was on her reminds him of Vivian.
Emily. That’s her name. She looks up at Tank, her eyes widening with fear. She glances to her left—the escape route Tank was eyeing—and looks back at Tank. Oh, she’s thinking about running, too. Good. Tank vaguely remembers her from school—she’s one of the pretty girls who hangs out with the crowd Shark always sneers at, think they’re too good for everyone and are stuck-up. Tank remembers seeing her during PE, flying around the track as they did laps for the fitness test. She’s fast. She could make it.
She meets Tank’s gaze and gives him the slightest of nods. Tank grunts back at her, the barest of acknowledgments. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t really know anyone outside of Shark’s friends, and even then he can’t say he knows them, either. But if they’re going to run, they’re going to need to do it now.
This Jake kid, though. Tank doesn’t know about him. The kid is frozen, staring up at Grant. Whatever, Tank doesn’t have time for this. He can stay here and be punished—
Great. Jake is blocking the way. He’s standing right between Tank and Emily and the path to freedom. Tank could shove past him, but he doesn’t really like the idea much at all. It’s a Shark move, and he doesn’t want people to be really afraid of him. Maybe he’s gonna have to—
No. He’ll go the other way.
Tank catches Emily’s eye and then looks quickly to his right, as if to say, I’m going that way. You can follow if you want, but you’re on your own if you get caught.
He takes a step to the right.
“Don’t even think about it, buddy.” Grant shines the light directly on him and takes a step forward, blocking his path. “I’ve already called Ellen and the project manager and they’re on the way.”
Jake pales. “Wait, no—”
A door opens and shuts nearby—the apartment unit next to the community center. Ellen Jenkins appears, shuffling forward in her slippers and a mold-colored bathrobe. Her flyaway salt-and-pepper hair is done up in curlers.
She fixes her beady eyes on the three kids, her cold gaze all-knowing as she takes them in. “Thank you, Grant, for letting me know.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am. Do you want me to call the cops? I already called Mr. Thomas.” Grant grins vindictively at Tank. “Actions have consequences. I know your type. You’re always breaking the rules, always ignoring the curfew, walking on the grass, lurking in the courtyard. Now you’re going to have to face the music.” His voice is so cold that Tank swears the temperature drops a few degrees.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mrs. Jenkins says. “This is my building—”
“Mr. Thomas is my boss, he said to wait for him before I take any action, but it sounded like he wanted to press charges.”
“You called Mr. Thomas first?” Mrs. Jenkins asks, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Ye-es?” Grant looks down at his feet.
“How dare you. I am still in charge of this building, I’m the one giving you a paycheck—”
“Technically he hired me for this job to watch the site at night, and uh, you cut back my hours last month because you said you didn’t need a doorman, so right now he’s the one paying me, and this construction site is his, of course I called him first—”
Tank sprints to his right, trying to take advantage of the argument to get away. He feels the cold concrete beneath his feet, pushing off and picking up speed as he darts around the tractor, his pulse racing in his ears. He sees the fence ahead and the sweet taste of freedom behind it. He grabs the chain links, the metal digging into his fingers. He pulls himself up and tries to wedge his shoe into a fence link, but it’s one of those cheap fences that wobbles and it’s not stable enough for him to get a good foothold. Great, he’ll have to go around—there, a gap. Tank wrenches his foot out from the fence and runs.
Behind him, he can hear quick exhales and footsteps. Emily must have followed him.
Tank turns back just to see—both she and Jake are running. Fine, whatever, Tank’s not responsible for them, he just needs to get away. He can’t be caught; Shark’s told him so many stories about juvie and he thinks about records and he can’t lose time, he has work and has to help Ma and—
FLOMP.
Tank’s collided with something solid—no, someone.
He falls backward, wincing as he lands on the cold concrete, sending up sawdust and bits of drywall everywhere. He coughs, looking up, and freezes.
“Hold up there. Where do you think you’re going?”
A middle-aged balding man wearing a crisp blue shirt buttoned up the wrong way stares down at him. Despite the dress shirt and slacks, he’s got the look of someone who’s used to working with his hands, with broad shoulders and a calculating stare. He offers Tank a callused hand. It feels like a trap but Tank would rather not be on the ground when everyone else is standing.
He takes the hand, and the man pulls him to his feet with a viselike grip.
“Now, what’s all this I hear about vandalizing the construction site?”
“It’s these three, Mr. Thomas,” Grant says, huffing as he catches up to them. Mrs. Jenkins isn’t far behind, shuffling after them, her bathrobe trailing behind her like a cape.
The man—Mr. Thomas—looks Tank over with a scrutinizing eye, and then he spots Emily behind him, and then his gaze settles on Jake.
“Jake?”
Jake offers an awkward small wave. “Hi, Dad.”
Oh.
Tank freezes. This is bad, right? This is awful. He doesn’t want to see this. If it was his dad—
Mrs. Jenkins wheezes as she catches up to them.
“You see these troublemakers? Caught them red-handed, I did. We’ve got evidence, too.” Grant holds up the wrench and waves it at Mr. Thomas.
“I had nothing to do with this!” Emily says, stomping her foot. “I was just here!”
“Trespassing!” Grant snarls at her. “This whole site is off-limits!” He glares at Mr. Thomas. “I can call the authorities now, sir, and you can press charges.”
Mr. Thomas is still gaping at Jake.
“Ahem.” Mrs. Jenkins taps her cane on the ground. “There’s no need to be rash.”
“Punishment! Consequences!” Grant says, eyes darting wildly between Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jenkins. “I believe juvenile detention would certainly make these kids think twice about messing with anyone’s personal property ever again.”
Mrs. Jenkins flicks a switch on a heavy-duty construction light standing behind her. The site is flooded with a bright, stark fluorescent light, casting each of them in harsh shadow. She looks directly at Tank, her gaze locking him in. He freezes, like she’s cast some sort of immobilizing spell and he can’t move.
“Now, these youths you say were causing trouble,” Mrs. Jenkins says, giving Grant a keen eye.
“I found this wrench here on the ground,” Grant says quickly.
“And how do you know it didn’t belong to the construction crew? Mr. Thomas, I cannot believe the blatant disregard for health and safety.” Mrs. Jenkins clucks her tongue.
“That doesn’t change that the kids were here trespassing,” Grant says.
“I was just looking for my photos,” Emily says quietly. “I dropped my Polaroids here earlier.”
“I was helping,” Jake says.
“Me too,” Tank adds.
Grant casts a suspicious look at him. “Mr. Thomas, don’t tell me you believe them!”
Mr. Thomas sighs. “Look, it’s normal for kids to be curious. I know I did my fair share of sneaking around into places I shouldn’t have been when I was your age. Now, I do believe breaking the rules warrants a punishment. Jake, you’re grounded. And I’ll call your friends’ parents as well and let them know the severity of the situation.”
“I’ll say. You know that wrench doesn’t belong to any of the crew. No one leaves their tools lying around,” Grant mutters.
“I have a proposal,” Mrs. Jenkins says. “Nigel, you gave me three weeks while you got your supplies delivered to clean out all my personal effects in the community center. And I know I’ve been taking my time—sorting through everything is quite difficult, as you know, with my back, and I requested more time…”
“What are you suggesting, Ellen?” Mr. Thomas asks, tilting his head.
“Community service. It’s typical of what a judge would offer for this sort of light mischief.” Mrs. Jenkins folds her arms, looking at the dilapidated building behind them. “Now, we don’t need to do any of those official charges and consequences and stuff. I believe the children deserve a second chance.”
“What, like picking up trash and stuff?” Tank’s done that before at school. He’s gotten into trouble a lot, and usually during detention they make all the kids walk the campus and pick up trash and scrape gum. He used to be humiliated, having to be seen doing that in front of the whole school, but he learned from Shark to wear it like a badge of honor. That he was one of the tough kids. That his reputation was etched in stone as someone not to be messed with.
Mrs. Jenkins nods. “A little more focused than that, but I like where your mind is going, Tank. Now, with three pairs of hands helping me, I’m sure I could get the whole place cleaned up and ready for you by the date you specified.” Mrs. Jenkins smiles at Mr. Thomas, and Tank could swear her eyes are twinkling.
It’s a little weird. He’s never seen Mrs. Jenkins like this; she’s always been stern or sad or some sort of combination of both.
“Vuong, isn’t it?” She pulls a pad of paper out of her pocket and licks her forefinger before flipping to a new page. “V-U-O-N-G. Vuong, B-three-eleven.” She glances at Emily. “You’re one of the Quesada girls, huh. Carmen?”
Emily stays silent.
“No, you’re wearing too much color. You’re the other one. Emily,” Mrs. Jenkins clucks to herself. “Quesada, C-two-fourteen.” She marks it down on her pad and then she turns to Jake. “Thomas. A-two-oh-four.” Her pen’s scratching sounds echo in the construction site as she scribbles quickly, making flourishes as she writes.
“Here’s a proposal. Is that sufficient for you? And I can call these two’s parents right now.”
Mr. Thomas takes the handwritten sheet, blinking at it owlishly. “This sounds agreeable. Thank you for your time, Ellen, and for the suggestion.”
Tank watches as Mrs. Jenkins pulls out her phone. She jerks her head at Grant, who fumbles for his keys and unlocks the giant lock on the chain wrapped around the fence gate and pushes it open.
Emily follows him, her head held down, and Jake and Mr. Thomas step through as well. Mrs. Jenkins is calling someone, jabbing at her phone keypad with a tense ferocity. She huffs, hanging up, and then dials another number. The response is immediate, and Mrs. Jenkins speaks in urgent, quick Spanish. Tank doesn’t understand, but he watches Emily’s eyes widening as the woman on the other end of the call responds, the tone rapid-fire and angry.
Mrs. Jenkins gives Emily a satisfied smile. “Your parents are on their way down.”
Tank bristles when Ellen turns to face him.
“And no one answered at your house.”
Tank clenches and unclenches his fists. Ma’s at work. Auntie Phuong is probably asleep. Viv would have her headphones in, playing Minecraft. He hopes the phone call to the landline just rang and rang and no one heard it, no one knows that he’s gotten in trouble.
Doors open and shut from the direction of the West Tower. That must be Emily’s parents on their way over.
Emily’s lip wobbles. “I’m already grounded, though!”
Jake and his dad are having some sort of silent conversation that’s making Tank incredibly uncomfortable. His dad isn’t yelling or even saying anything, just looking at Jake with this weird, sad face.
Tank follows everyone out into the courtyard and watches Grant lock the gate back up, unsure of what to do.
Emily’s parents are now here, a couple who look exhausted and disappointed. Emily looks like her parents, with her mom’s brown curls and her dad’s wide forehead and expressive eyebrows. She hangs her head as they speak to her in hushed disappointment. Her mom takes Emily by the elbow and leads her away after speaking with Mrs. Jenkins.
She’s now talking to Mr. Thomas, and Tank can pick out “nine o’clock” and “about four or five hours a day should be sufficient” but he can’t focus right now. Can he leave? Does Mrs. Jenkins expect his parents to show up? What happens when she realizes no one is going to pick up the phone?
Jake looks at Tank as his dad takes him by the shoulder. He offers up his hand—it’s not quite a wave.
Tank shakes his head. He doesn’t want anything to do with this kid; he just wanted to find Viv’s notebook and because he heard a noise and stopped to talk to Jake, it’s landed them all in trouble.
The Thomases disappear into the foyer of the North Tower, the brand-new one. He guesses it makes sense, if Mr. Thomas’s company is the one doing the renovation. Tank doesn’t know many people aside from the Mishras who live in that tower—most of them are new tenants. Most of the old ones couldn’t afford to stay.
“Your parents work late, right?” Mrs. Jenkins turns her sharp eye on Tank.
He nods.
“I’ll see you bright and early here tomorrow at nine, then,” Mrs. Jenkins says. It’s not a question. She looks up at Tank, her eyes glinting as hard as steel, and even though she’s a tiny old woman, Tank is more than a little daunted.
“Okay,” he offers, nodding at her.
Mrs. Jenkins gives him one last look before striding across the courtyard to return to her tower, her bathrobe flowing behind her regally.
Tank is now alone with Grant. The security guard has already settled, standing in front of the fence, looking at his phone, scrolling with the same boredom Tank’s come to recognize as his daily routine. He wonders how much Grant makes to watch this place, if it’s more than Tank makes helping Mr. Mishra with his boxes.
Tank can feel Grant’s eyes on him as he tries to walk back to his own tower, and he hunches his shoulders instinctively, trying to make himself smaller, less threatening. He pauses, wondering, wanting to say something, but he doesn’t know where to start.
“What, you want to laugh at me some more? You don’t get enough of it with your friends?”
“I—” Tank stares at his feet. His shoes are scuffed and worn, and his socks are poking out of the sneakers’ top. Grant’s shoes are equally as shabby-looking, old boots that have seen better days. The I’m sorry sticks in his throat but he tries to say it anyway, and it comes out like a small mumble instead. Tank tries again. “Your keys. I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Yeah? You’re sorry for making my job harder? You know if I lose that set of keys the replacement cost will come out of my paycheck?”
Tank doesn’t say anything. He thinks of how Shark laughed at Grant.
“Whatever, kid. Go home. You’re lucky you got this deal.”
Tank exhales. He doesn’t feel lucky. Lucky would have meant avoiding this whole situation in the first place. But Viv had wanted her notebook with the coordinates, and they were in that computer lab somewhere, and he definitely can’t get them now with Grant watching him with a careful eye.
Tank sticks his hands into his pockets and looks carefully away. He walks back to his tower alone. He glances up at the sky; the moon is a sliver, hiding behind the clouds. The courtyard is shrouded in shadow now that Mrs. Jenkins turned off the bright construction light, and it’s back to the eerie strangeness of the middle of the night.
The door to the stairwell echoes with a loud metallic clang; Tank has always been used to it, the abandoned staircase that no one uses in the far west section of the tower. He walks up to the third floor, dreading every step that takes him closer to home.
He approaches his apartment door and pauses. His hand trembles as he tries to fit the key into the lock. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the door. The metal is cold against his skin, growing clammy with sweat. The longer he stays out here, the more time he has before anybody inside could know that he’s failed everyone. He could stay out here forever.
The door opens without warning. Tank slips forward but catches himself before losing his balance.
Viv blinks up at him owlishly behind her round frames, cast in shadow. The streetlight from the courtyard barely enters the dim apartment, lighting only the knees of Viv’s dinosaur pajamas.
“What are you doing, dummy?” Viv rolls her eyes at him. “Just standing outside forever?”
“Yeah. That’s me. I’m a dummy. I just like leaning against the door and you ruined all that.” Tank rolls his eyes and pretends to be annoyed, but he can’t help but smile. She must have noticed he wasn’t home and waited for him. It’s nice, knowing that she cares about where he is.
“I heard shouting from the courtyard. Was that Old Woman Jenkins?”
“Yeah.”
“What were you doing? Hanging out with Shark again? You know he’s mean, right?”
Tank shrugs as he steps inside, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He shuts the door behind him and makes his way through the dark of the living room. The kitchen is softly lit, a programming book flipped open and the single fluorescent lamp lighting it. Viv must have been hanging out here, waiting for him.
Tank sighs, making his way through the living room, his pathway memorized as he avoids the furniture on his way to the bathroom.
Footsteps pad behind him, and the hallway light flickers on. “I saw you. Being yelled at. There were a bunch of people downstairs by the community center.”
Tank turns around and sighs. “I was trying to get your coordinates,” he mutters. “Got caught up in some other kid’s prank.”
Viv’s frown deepens, her forehead wrinkling with concern. “I made you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” She offers the sandwich to him. It’s made the way she likes it, cut diagonally across the middle, with a generous heaping of jelly oozing onto the plate. “Are you in trouble?”
“Yeah. Did you hear the phone ring earlier?”
Viv nods and points to the receiver where a blinking red 01 indicates a new voicemail.
Tank deletes the message. “I’ll deal with it. No one has to know. We don’t need to worry Ma.”
“What are you going to do?”
Tank doesn’t know. The only thing he does know is that he’s going to show up at the community center tomorrow and do exactly what he needs to do to fix this.