Marshall bolted from the collection of portable buildings that made up Vision Charter School. He cut across athletic fields his school shared with Oak Tree Elementary, went through the back gate to Del Amo Street, and hid behind a bush to jump the little rat-faced bastard Finn.
Students trickled around the corner. Moms in minivans rolled by. At least the sirens had stopped. Cops no longer swarmed the neighborhood.
Normal schools were off the day before Thanksgiving, but Vision Charter always tried to prove it was different. Marshall toed the dirt, waiting, thinking about his brother James. After the school bell had rung, Marshall had found him in his deserted classroom, hunched at his desk. On the back of James’ neck was LAMES in jerky black pen strokes.
He knew Finn did it. The little bastard had been harassing James and calling him Lames since the start of the school year.
Now as Finn rounded the corner with a buddy, Marshall stepped in front of him. Finn froze. The friend stared wide-eyed at Marshall and then at Finn, waiting for Finn to react.
Pulling back his shoulders, Finn squinted up at Marshall. “Whadda you want?” Arms folded over his scrawny chest, popping small biceps.
The kid has balls. Marshall would give him that. James was two inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier than this freckled runt, should have been able to kick his ass. But James…well. Marshall’s heart dropped.
Marshall poked Finn’s sternum hard enough to back him up, off balance. “You touch my brother again, I’ll pound the piss outta you.”
An SUV turned the corner. Finn spread his arms to his sides like a gunslinger and smirked at him. “Ooohh. Aren’t you tough? An eighth grader who can beat up a fifth grader.”
The friend plucked at Finn’s shirt. “Hey, we should go.” Finn allowed himself to be towed past Marshall. The mommy mobile passed, a couple of little kids gawking from the back.
Marshall pivoted, turned the corner at La Paz Street, and headed back to the campus. He felt flushed. Finn had a point. Marshall was broad-shouldered and five foot eight and would seem like a bully if he beat on Finn.
Across the street, James walked by with his friend Scotty. The two should be okay, playing video games at Scotty’s house like they usually did. James shot Marshall a worried look but kept going, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck.
On Beverly Lane, the cat at the yellow house across the street froze and stared at him. Marshall must have walked by that cat lazing around in the flowers a billion times, but this time it inspected him like he was a dog. Then it arched up like a Halloween cat and fuffed at him. What the hell?
Marshall passed the driveway that led back to Vision Charter, tucked behind the elementary school. He kept straight on Beverly Lane to his spot, a picnic table on a splotch of grass. He splayed himself like a starfish on top of the table. The afternoon stretched before him.
His school was a bunch of portables surrounded by chain-link prison fences. Marshall preferred Oak Tree with its lawns and the big field he’d cut across where little kids played T-ball in the spring.
When he’d gone to Oak Tree, a lot of the kids rode their bikes or walked to school like him and James did. They’d fit in.
On the occasions when the charter school called to bug his dad about his volunteer hours, Marshall seized the opportunity. “I’d be happy to go to Pacific.” Pacific was a real middle school. At Vision Charter he was stuck with kids all the way down to kindergarten.
His father scratched at specks of paint on his arms. “Vision is a better school.”
“Pacific has a music program.”
“Academics first. Guitar second.”
On the picnic table, Marshall scooched down to let his legs drape off the end, his orange Converses dangling. Clouds drifted. Every few moments, the sun would pop free, warming his face and glinting on the sun-bleached strands of his honey-colored hair.
Maybe he could persuade his dad by telling him about Finn. What a little punk. He should have smacked the freckles off his face. Then he and James could both go to a regular middle school.
He never argued hard against his dad, though. Because his dad’s face sagged, and Marshall knew he’d rather be surfing, out where the waves could wash away his sadness. Instead, his dad spent his time cooking mac and cheese and hauling his kids to Target to buy new underwear. His dad had campaigned for two years to get Marshall into Vision Charter. Once Marshall was there, it had been easier to get James in. It wasn’t really about academics; his dad wanted him and James together in a small school, surrounded by a fence, where he thought they might be safe.
Rolling thunks of skateboard wheels traveled toward him. Marshall sat up. His one friend, Rocky, was grinding on the curb of the parking lot, which he wasn’t supposed to do, which was why Marshall liked him.
Rocky landed a flip trick, then jumped off his board, caught it by the tip, and lifted his chin at Marshall in greeting.
Marshall patted the pocket of his shirt and put his thumb and forefinger to his lips.
Rocky loped toward him, carrying his board. A new black skull decal shone on the dark side of the skateboard deck.
“That’s tight.”
Rocky tucked long blond hair behind an ear. “My mom bought it for me.” He laughed.
Marshall laughed too, but not without a hollow thump in his chest. Marshall’s mom had brought him here—right here—holding his hand for his first day of kinder. He’d been a big baby, sinking down to the concrete and screaming to go home. Rocky was lucky to have a mom even if she was so young kids went around saying she was a MILF, like they’d ever had sex with anyone besides Rosie Palm.
By silent mutual consent, the two boys headed to the gate that blocked the street. They slipped around it on the pedestrian passageway and crossed Beverly Lane. They passed Big Al’s Iron Works and automotive shops before turning onto a road that bisected an empty field. It used to be a place that sold rocks. For some reason, as a kid, Marshall had been fascinated by the piles of pebbles and stacks of bricks. Now there was nothing but grit and bits of gravel.
At the end of the short road, Marshall led the way along a fence. Usually, no one and nothing was around. That was why they came here. But today, a huge green dumpster hulked on the asphalt. The dumpster looked like one you’d get for a demolition. Maybe the one-room office for the rock business was going to be torn down.
Behind the dumpster, Marshall sparked up a joint, took a hit, and passed it to Rocky.
Rocky barely inhaled before he handed it back. He threw down his skateboard and tried to knock open one of the dumpster’s lids. It banged back shut, loud as a gunshot.
“What the fuck?” Marshall pinched the end of the joint and stuck it in his pocket. They’d come back here because it was quiet, but Rocky never seemed to think about stuff like that.
“Why is this dumpster here?”
Marshall shrugged. Rocky acted like he had ADD. “You know what, dude? You should have your mom get you medical marijuana. Calm you down.” Although the hit Rocky had taken hadn’t done any good.
Rocky didn’t answer. He picked up his skateboard and used it to wedge open the heavy lid.
“What’re you doing?”
Rocky grabbed the edge of the dumpster. “Make sure the lid doesn’t fall on me.”
Marshall couldn’t reach the high end of the lid, so he held the skateboard steady to keep the lid propped open. Rocky hopped and levered himself over the rim. The top half of his body folded into the container, his hair flipping forward off his back. “Dude, this is weird.” His voice echoed. Rocky slid out to the pavement, trawling a backpack and jacket. White powder, like sheetrock dust, covered the bottom of the pack. But the rest of the dark blue fabric was shiny new.
“Hey!”
Marshall whipped around, pulling loose the skateboard. The lid slammed. On the road through the old rock yard, a skinny girl in a skirt straddled a pink cruiser bike. Older than them, like maybe a senior. She rocked a short tee shirt that stopped below her tits and revealed ink of a snake.
“Whatdaya have?” The girl put her UGG boots on the pedals and coasted forward. Marshall dumped the skateboard on the ground. She eyed the pack in Rocky’s hand. Rocky acted totally uncool, dropping the jacket to the ground and sticking the pack behind his back like a little kid.
Marshall stepped toward her. “None of your business.”
She stopped and propped skinny arms on the handlebars. Thick make-up ringed her eyes. They narrowed at him. Her bike tire turned toward Rocky.
“Give me the pack.”
“No!” Rocky said. “We found it.”
Rocky scooped up his board and ran with it under his arm until he was past the treacherous pebbles. The girl stomped the pedal of her bike and raced after him. Marshall chased the girl. Lunging, he caught the metal rack over the back fender. He lurched forward. Then he yanked back, skidding on the gravel. The bike juddered to a stop.
The girl tipped sideways. She put a toe down, her UGGs sliding on loose rocks. She didn’t fall over, but her skirt flipped up and black lace peeked out. Marshall gawked.
“You little fucker!”
Up close, her blue eyes were red-rimmed, but she was still beautiful. A spicy perfume rose from her body.
When she drew herself upright, he quit staring and sprinted toward the elementary school to catch up with Rocky.
“That’s not yours! You and your stupid friend are going to pay for taking it!”
The bike tires whirred behind him. He couldn’t figure out why Rocky was running from a girl or why she was bothering to chase him, but he cut sideways before she could ram his leg. When she cranked back toward him, he headed over the curb toward the grassy area of the school. She looked too weak to jump a curb with a cruiser, but then she was a crazy hopped-up psycho chick trying to run him over with a bike.
“Run!” Rocky screamed at him from the playground. The idiot stood on the other side of the jungle gym, grinning and swinging the pack above his head as though it were a weapon he intended to hurl.
As soon as Marshall caught up, Rocky whooped and ran. His hair streamed and shimmered behind him. Something bumped around inside the backpack like a noisemaker for a football game. Rocky headed toward the fields, a good idea. On grass, they’d be able to move faster than the bike.
Marshall’s head throbbed. At this point, both schools were closed for vacation. The gate out from the field would be locked.
He glanced back. The girl had thrown her bike down on home plate and was yanking something from the waistband of her skirt. She put it up to her face, and he knew it was a cell phone.
His armpits were wet, but his mouth was dry. He and Rocky could climb the chain-link, easy enough. But it was threaded with brown plastic privacy strips, and right now the sun angled into blinding glitter through the cracks.
The girl acted as if they’d stolen her stuff, but it was a man’s pack. Who was the girl calling and what would be waiting for them over the fence on Del Amo Street?