NOW THAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT, she honestly cannot remember ever speaking to a boy, except of course things like “Takes one to know one” and “Don’t even think about it, dirtball.” Certainly she has never had a conversation with one and until this moment doubted she ever would. But here she is, thanks to the lunacy of this day, compelled in the direction of the enemy—the Amigos, as they absurdly call themselves. Two-thirds of them anyway. Maybe they can tell her what’s going on. Obviously their pal the Jack boy has been chewing on locoweed or something—anybody can see that. And Ana Mae couldn’t care less. What she does care about is the effect on Jubilee. The Jack boy seems to have acquired some sort of weird gravity, and it’s pulling her best friend into its orbit.
They’re looking at her as she pedals toward them. They can’t believe it. She can see it in their eyes. She can’t believe it either. She hates this. She’s terrified. What if they gang up on her? She repeats to herself: “Only for Ace … only for Ace …”
She almost has to laugh. If she didn’t know better, she might think they were harmless, sitting there all innocent-looking, as if they’re not even boys, as if they’re not responsible for everything wrong in the world. Even their bikes are a mess, dented nags flopped akimbo in the dirt. The brown boy, LaJo, thinks he’s so cool. Shrugs a lot. Never smiles. Never surprised. That’s what she hates most about him, that he’s never surprised. She hit him in the back of the head with a water balloon once and all he did was slowly turn and look at her. Thing was, he didn’t stop looking. She wanted to scream Do something! but all he did was stare—a lazy, stupid stare, no less—so finally she just stuck her tongue out and took off. This was when they were little.
And the other one. Dusty. Can’t stand him for opposite reasons. Never shuts up. Whines and giggles like a Sillynilly. Tags after the Jack boy like a puppy. Still cries. Sneaks off to Snuggle Stop. He stands, his eyes getting wider and wider as she approaches, while the LaJo kid, squatting on a rock, looks lazily away, pretending she’s not here. As she brakes her bike, she decides the best way is to just plunge: “So what are you wingnuts doing to Jubilee?”
That gets LaJo’s attention. He doesn’t turn to her but his head actually cranks up a notch. Meanwhile, the Dusty boy responds brilliantly: “Huh?”
“Is this bike thing some kinda trick you’re playing on Jubilee? Some kinda joke?”
Dustymusty stupidly stares, blinks. If he says Huh? again, she’s gonna run him over—and suddenly hears herself say it, snapping at the crybaby: “Huh?”
When the answer finally comes, it’s from the other direction, the cool one: “It’s no joke.”
Glory be—it speaks! She continues to face the Dusty crybaby. “Really? How so? What’s going on?”
Something new comes into the Dusty one’s eyes. Something frightened. “It ain’t her,” he says. “It ain’t us.” His voice is wavering. “It’s him.”
She’s beginning to regret all this, but it’s too late to back out. She tries to sound demanding. “Him what?”
All she gets from Dusty is a glistening eye and a nod toward the other one. She waits, but there is only silence and the creep of the shadows. She knows she will not get an answer until she turns and faces Mr. Cool. At last she does.
“He’s going,” he says.
She hears the words but they make no sense. “Going? Where?”
The kid finally looks away, which is a relief. He does his shrug thing. “Don’t know.”
The Dusty one wails: “He’s going away! There’s only gonna be two of us! Two Amigos!” He’s not even pretending not to cry.
Ana Mae doesn’t know what else to say, to think. She knows less now than she did before. Going? How does a kid go? Why? To where? She tries to think of another question but cannot. She foot-pushes her bike backward. She climbs into the saddle and slowly pedals away, toward nowhere in particular. Going. It doesn’t make sense. She’s never known a world without the Jack boy. Without all of them. Sure, she hates them. So does Jubilee. How many times have she and Jubilee wished they would all be trampled by the herd of wild bikes? But heck, the world is the world and boys are part of it, like flies. Without them, what would there be to swat?
In the distance she sees Jubilee tracing circles around Jack. It occurs to her that she may be looking at this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe she and Jubilee are getting their wish. If the shrugger and the crybaby are right, the population of the world is about to lose one boy. One boy down, one boy gone. That can’t be bad.
Can it?