The final bell of the day rings, and my boys head off to football practice. My dad doesn’t pick me up for another three hours, so I go to see what normal kids do while I’m getting yelled at and smashing into other dudes in stinky shoulder pads. I feel so free.
I’m also a star. Kids are talking about me behind my back. I think I grew another inch. I kiss Abby for a while in front of the drill-team room. If Lynn saw us, she’d kill me, but I’m making my own rules today! Abby’s really into the kissing too. She’s dating a bad boy now, and she’s fired up about it, breathing heavy and grabbing my back. I might go get a tattoo—or just grab a cinnamon roll and chocolate milk from the cafeteria.
It turns out that kids don’t do much of anything after school, so I’m walking around the senior parking lot, kicking a rock, basking in my glory, and watching my boys trudge up the hill to practice. I’m on top of the world as I shoot my milk into a Dumpster and work out my vacation plans.
My arm/list is filling up fast when Nick Brock’s truck rolls up behind me real slow. The rumble of the engine is the only thing louder than my heartbeat. Brock is one of Scary Terry’s best friends, and he’s skipping football practice to murder me! I knew this was all too good to be true. The tinted window lowers, and he gives me a nod. If I run, he’ll
just catch me. He’s real fast.
“You need a ride?” Brock asks.
So that’s how it is? It’s going to be a Mafia-type hit. I’m supposed to just get into that truck and get driven to some swamp to get whacked? No way, José.
“Uhhh,” I reply.
“Get in,” Brock says.
Like a soldier who knows he’s got to face the firing squad, I climb into the old truck. Maybe he’ll do it quick if I don’t fight. He doesn’t say anything as we drive out of the parking lot. I’m like a puppy being driven off to the vet for a “little procedure.” We drive past the practice field, and I make eye contact with EJ. His bloody, swollen lips drop open in shock. Time slows as I say farewell to my old friend. He gives me a sad wave. I press my hand to the glass. Nothing he can do for me now. I’ve never wanted to be at football practice more than I do right now.
“I’ve got to go to the chiropractor today,” Brock says. “Can’t practice.”
“Y-y-yeah, me too,” I say stiffly. “Not the chiropractor, but the no practicing.”
He looks over at me and gives me a nod, like he might not kill me or he’s thinking about where to dump my body after he does. We drive in silence until I can come up with another brilliant question.
“Did you hurt your back?” I ask.
He replies, “Did
I
hurt my back?”
He’s either messing with me or he’s retarded, so I say it again really slowly and point to his spine, “Did yoou hurt yoour baack?”
“Nooo . . . you did,” he says plainly. “You kicked two footballs into it, remember?”
Oh, he’s definitely going to kill me, and he’s not going to do it quick, either. He’s going to put my foot into a meat grinder and hook my nipples up to jumper cables! Of all the guys in the world you’d never mess with on purpose, Nick Brock has got to be at the top of the list. And this is the dude I keep pissing off!
He makes a slow right turn toward downtown. We angle onto an old gravel alley in between big brick buildings. He looks me in the eyes and says, “I heard what you did to Terry this afternoon.”
This is it. The hat trick. I’ve hurt him, and I’ve done harm to
La Famiglia
, and now I must PAY!
“Yeah, he’s a nut job,” Brock continues. “It’s great that you stood up to him. That’s the only way a guy like that respects you. He kicked my ass twice before I fought back, but we’ve been friends ever since.”
Wait, wait, wait! Skinny Terry Moss beat up Gigantor Nick Brock? Impossible. Brock is the toughest human on earth. He has the toughest haircut, the toughest truck, he even smells tough, like motor oil and tobacco or something. He wears work boots to school!
“Hit him with a textbook, huh?” Brock asks.
“
Intro to Science
,” I reply.
“Ohh, that’s a big one.” He laughs.
I don’t know where he’s taking me. We’re in an old part of the city, nowhere near my house, but I don’t think he’s going to kill me anymore. Unless he’s a cold-blooded psychopath who can just joke around with a guy before taking him out.
“He probably won’t bother you again,” Brock says.
We bust a left onto a paved street, and I contemplate the word “probably.” We’re just cruising down the street in his badass old truck. Carter and Brock. Butch and Sundance. Bert and Ernie. It even smells cool in here. Like a woodsman and a mechanic.
“Smells good in here,” I say. Dang it, jackass! Not an acceptable thing to say.
“Yeah, my dad smokes a pipe.” He laughs. “Ya know I overheard your sister talking the other day, and I wanted to let you know, I didn’t know that was your bike we took.”
“Oh yeah, that . . . Uh, that’s no big deal,” I lie.
We pull into a pawnshop down on Grand Street. Brock says, “Give me a sec,” gets out of the truck, and limps inside the store.
I’m just chillin’ in the truck with my arm hanging out the window, hoping someone might recognize me. Maybe he’s in there buying a CD or a gold chain. Brass knuckles or, like, a chain saw . . . I don’t know what you buy at a pawnshop. Man, it really smells good in here. I wish my dad smoked a pipe. My dad smokes cigarettes, and that’s just annoying because he’s killing himself and there’s no great smell left afterward. Maybe I can get him to switch. If I had money, I’d go get him a pipe at this pawnshop. I wonder if they have pipes. I wonder if they’d sell one to a fourteen-year-old.
Brock emerges from the pawnshop with an old friend: a chrome, Redline 500a. My bike! I jump out of the truck with a huge grin. It’s like a reunion after a hostage crisis. Brock doesn’t smile or anything; he just gives it back to me.
“So you wanna ride it home or do you need a lift?” he asks.
It probably would look cool if I just rode off, but my house is really far from here, and how often do you get to roll with Nick Brock?
“I-I-I’ll take a ride, if you don’t mind,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, no sweat. You live by the park, right?” he asks.
“How did you know that?” I ask as I climb in.
“I went to a huge party at your house a couple years ago,” Nick says. “Your sister was a freshman, I think. It was a rager.”
That little punk! I bet it was when we all went to my grandma’s funeral. She couldn’t go because she was supposed to be at a cheerleading thing. Oh, this is good.
“I didn’t know we had a party,” I exclaim.
“How could you not? Your house got trashed! She must have repainted or something.” Brock laughs.
“What?” I ask in disbelief. My sister’s pretty crafty, but how could she have gotten away with this? Who helped her? Oh, my brain hurts. It’s not every day a little brother gets the upper hand. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had an upper hand. How do I handle this? She’ll be my slave. She’ll clean my room until she leaves for college. Every time she goes to tell my mom some stupid thing I’ve done, I’ll just say, “Whoa, let’s party, Lynn!” or “I sure do miss Grandma.” She’s mine.
“How is your sister?” Brock inquires.
“She’s real good, when she takes her medication,” I reply. What the hell is he asking about her for?
“Really?” he asks.
“Naw, man, she’s not on any medication. She should be. If doctors knew what I know, books would be written,” I say jokingly.
“What do you mean?” Brock demands.
“She’ll just be all cool one minute, giving me advice and stuff, and then she’ll flip out and start ordering me around and acting psycho.”
“Yeah, but that’s just chicks, dude,” Brock says, all wise like Mr. Miyagi.
This guys knows a lot, but he knows nothing of the depth of my sister’s well of craziness. If other girls were as crazy as she is, the human race would never reproduce.
“Is Lynn seeing anybody right now?” he asks.
“Seeing anybody? Like, does she have the gift of sight?”
“No,” Brock replies.
“She sees dead people!” I whisper, hoping to get off the subject of my sister. “Uh, did you like that movie?”
“No, seriously, who’s she dating?”
Wait a minute. Am I getting my bike back and a ride home to pimp out my sister? I just might be offended if I weren’t so stoked to be in Nick Brock’s truck and to have my bike back. He used to date Pam; why would he be into Lynn? He may be able to bench-press a thousand pounds, but she’ll break him like a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Man, I don’t like this at all. Sorry, Romeo, but your Juliet is a nut!
“Yeah, she’s seeing some dude at church,” I lie.
It’s for your own good, big fella.
“Oh,” he replies, all sad.
Man, we don’t even go to church; I’m just the best liar ever.
“What church do you guys go to?” he asks.
“Uhh, t-t-the one over by Hawkus Middle School,” I say quickly. It’s the only church I can think of—I used to skate in the parking lot. But now Brock is going to walk in on Sunday and murder every guy between the ages of fifteen and twenty, trying to find Lynn’s fictitious boyfriend. It’ll be a massacre, and the blood will be on my hands. That’s just bad Jesus karma! Or maybe Brock is just making conversation.
We pull up in front of the house, and I get my bike out of the back. As I set the wheels down, the front door rips open and Lynn comes flying out all red and flustered. Her shirt is on backward and she has yogurt on her chin. Oh, that’s funny.
“HEY, you got your bike back!” she says. “That’s great! You’re really lovely, Nick.”
Did she just say “lovely”? Yep, she’s beet red because she had no intention of saying “lovely.” Awesome! Then she runs up to me and goes for an awkward save. She gives me a hug, but we don’t ever hug, so it’s all weird.
“Yeah, I love ya, li’l bro!” she says, all loud. And then messes up my hair.
Who says “li’l bro”? And gives hugs and says “lovely”? Not my sister.
“Nick, that is sooo sweet, I can’t believe you got his bike back,” she squeals.
Well, he
was
involved in stealing the thing in the first place.
“It’s no big deal,” he replies.
“No big deal? Oh my God, Carter loves that bike! It’s like his life. He was going crazy without it,” she blathers.
“No I wasn’t,” I protest.
“Shut it!” she says under her breath. “Don’t you have homework or something, you little nerd?”
“Your shirt’s on backward,” I whisper with spite, and point at my chin a few times.
Her mouth gets all small and intense as she wipes her chin, turns redder, and seethes, “I think Mom needs to talk to you about your improper use of textbooks!”
“Yeah, either that or she wants me to call Grandma or something; I haven’t talked to her in a while,” I say.
“Get out of here!” she finally barks loud enough for Brock to hear. The guy needs to know.
I cruise into the kitchen and pour myself a big bowl of Cap’n Crunch, thinking about where my bike and I will ride tomorrow. I’m just finishing the last of the sweet blue milk when Lynn slams the front door. The floor trembles as she thunders closer. “CARTER?!” she screams. “What the hell is happening?”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Why is Nick Brock getting your bike back? And why did you fight Terry Moss at school?!”
“I ran into him on accident and he wanted to fight,” I say.
“He’s a psycho; I can’t believe you survived. What happened? Tell me everything!” she orders.
“Well, I was walking—”
“Shut up!” she interrupts. “Nick just said some guy at church is lucky to have a girl like me. Why would he say that?”
Dang it, Brock, you ginormous blabbermouth!
“Because he asked if you were seeing anyone, and I told him you were dating some dude at church.”
Her face starts to twitch as she asks, “What?! What church?”
“What did you want me to tell him, that the only guys you hang out with on Saturday nights are Ben and Jerry?” I reply, all snide. Man, if I could fight with other people as smooth as I fight with my sister, I would be unstoppable in an argument. (I might not just stand there and yell, “You stole my bike, a-hole!”)
“That’s pretty good, Carter!” She laughs. “So what did he say about me?”
This is weird. She used the words “good” and “Carter” in the same sentence. And it wasn’t “good-for-nothing Carter” like you’d expect. And she seems impressed that I stood up to Terry. This is quite a day.
I try to get things back to normal when I say, “Brock’s looking for a subject to study in his psychology class, and since everyone thinks you’re the biggest nut bag in school—”
“No he didn’t!” she says, all giggly and openmouthed. “Did he really say that?”
Who the hell is this chick, and what has she done with my sister?
“You’ve got to tell him I broke up with this church boy. Um, because he was too weak for me, and that he should ask me to homecoming,” she squeals.
“Who the hell am I, Cupid?” I ask. “I don’t exactly hang out with Nick Brock. I’m a freshman, he’s a senior, and he’ll kill me if I cross the imaginary force field that separates us.”
“I don’t know about any force field, but if he finds out there’s no church boy, and that you lied to him, he will kill you. You started this fire and now you’re gonna put it out. Got it?” she orders.
I just stare at her and think about how I’ve got the upper hand and she doesn’t know it.
“Oh, he’s so hot, isn’t he? He’s so sweet, and he smells sooo good,” she blathers.
“Uh, he’s not that sweet. I’ve seen him knock guys unconscious at football and smile about it. And that smell is his dad’s cancer pipe. Did you know he called me a twerp? And before he returned my bike, he stole it!” I yell.
“You’ll do it tomorrow!” she orders.
“Oh, I can’t. I’m suspended,” I say, all cool.
“You got suspended?” She laughs. “Mom and Dad are gonna kill you!”
“No they’re not, because they don’t know about it, and they aren’t gonna find out. And you’re gonna sign the note for ’em.”
“No, I’m not. I’m totally telling Mom,” she says.
I get all serious and say, “Ya know, I’m very disappointed in you. You know who else would be disappointed? Grandma. Grandma hated tattletales.”