Last of the Summer Tomatoes

Copyright

Published by

Harmony Ink Press

5032 Capital Circle SW

Ste 2, PMB# 279

Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

[email protected]

http://harmonyinkpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Last of the Summer Tomatoes

Copyright © 2013 by Sherrie Henry

Cover Art by Aaron Anderson

[email protected]

Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only
and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

[email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-62380-959-1

Library ISBN: 978-1-62380-931-7

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-960-7

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

July 2013

Library Edition

October 2013

Dedicated to Jarrod and all the other survivors

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
HANKS
to my mentor, Allison Cassatta, for her unending support and encouragement. Without your nudging me, I wouldn’t be seeing my work in print. Also a big thank you to my betas Kristi Rifkin and Johanna Rae for their late night chats and helpful suggestions, and for kicking my butt into gear when I wanted to give up. A big shout-out and thank you to Tony Alonso who was invaluable with his knowledge of the child legal system and procedures. And, of course, a thank you to all my readers, without whom I wouldn’t be sharing my tales.

One

K
YLE
shifted his weight from one foot to the other, folding and unfolding his arms as he stood in the long line. For what seemed like the fiftieth time, he dragged his fingers through his long black hair and looked up at the clock. Luckily it was an old analog clock so he could watch the second hand go slowly around again. It seemed like days had passed since he had been brought up from the holding room to the courtroom, when in actuality it had been about four hours. He looked behind him, seeing Billy, his best friend since the eighth grade. Billy’s wild-eyed expression, his anxious demeanor, the sweat on his brow, and nervous swallowing gave Kyle an idea. He whispered to him.

“Don’t cop to anything. Plead not guilty. No one saw who threw it.”

“You sure?”

“Been through this before.
Do not
admit to anything. Not even being there, even though they did catch us a block over. Billy, you say nothing other than ‘not guilty’ when asked, okay?”

Billy didn’t answer, just tugged at his t-shirt.

“Look, I’ve been through this before. Say nothing else but ‘not guilty’. I’ve got this. I know what to do. Got it?”

Billy nodded and dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kyle.”

“It’s okay. Really. Just do as I say, and we’ll get through this.” Kyle put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. Billy had had it rough, being small for his age, being the youngest and picked on because of his learning disability.

Kyle turned around as his name was called; the guard took him by the arm and led him into the courtroom. Weak spring sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, dust particles sparkling in the air. The court-appointed attorney he had met with for about fifteen minutes earlier was at the left; his parents were sitting behind him. He couldn’t look at them as he was led to the judge’s desk.

“Kyle Jackowski, charged with vandalism and assault.” The bailiff’s voice boomed across the courtroom.

Kyle looked up, surprised. He hadn’t heard about the assault charge. He hadn’t assaulted anyone.

The judge looked up from his paperwork. “How do you plead, Mr. Jackowski?”

The court-appointed attorney poked him. He couldn’t look up but was able to mumble. “Not guilty.”

“The people on bail?”

An older woman in a pale-green suit stood up. “The people seek remand to a juvenile detention center.”

The judge looked surprised. “Remand?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Jackowski is a repeat offender.”

The judge shuffled some papers. “Yes, I see a few out beyond curfew charges, vandalism of public property, trespassing, truancy….” He put the papers down. “Typical teenage stuff.”

“But this time there was an assault.”

“But I didn’t assault anyone!” Kyle had found his voice. This situation was getting totally out of control.

The judge banged his gavel. “Quiet, son. Yes, there is the assault. Please explain.”

The prosecutor pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to the judge. “When Mr. Jackowski and his associate threw the brick into the store, it broke several jars of mayonnaise and mustard. When Mr. Powell came out to confront them, he slipped and fractured his arm, thus the assault charge.”

“I see. Mr. Jackowski, what say you?”

Kyle was again poked by his attorney. “Sir, we were just messin’ around. We thought the glass was bulletproof, wanted to know. We weren’t going to steal anything I swear!”

The judge nodded. “Would the people accept house arrest and $500 bail?”

“That would be acceptable, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Jackowski, you are hereby to be monitored via house arrest until your pretrial hearing. Bail is set at $500. Next case.” The judge banged the gavel, and the guard grabbed his arm again.

He knew he was in deep shit now.

“F
IVE
hundred dollars! You cost me almost a week’s pay, you worthless piece of shit!” Kyle steeled himself for the punch that was about to come, and when it did, years of self-control kept him upright and emotionless. He had learned long ago never to even speak when his stepfather was on a rant.

“Breaking into a store? What the hell were you thinking? You and those worthless friends of yours. I should just let you go to prison, maybe you’ll learn something if you become somebody’s bitch.” Mr. Conte, as he was called on the docks, but known to Kyle as Hank, swigged down half his beer before continuing. “You can learn that your emo shit is going to just attract attention, the wrong kind of attention. Your black hair and black nails, hell, your entire black wardrobe… just asking for fucking trouble. And now, I have to see your sorry face 24/7 and pay $500 for your sorry ass.” The fist made contact with his temple before he was ready, and he stumbled.

“Can’t even take a punch, your sorry candy-ass won’t make it a day in prison.” Hank finished his beer and cracked open another one. “I should tell the bondsman I won’t pay it, send you to what you deserve.”

“Hank, please.” Kyle’s mom finally spoke, her hand on Hank’s wrist.

“Watch it, Marie. He’s not worth the trouble.” He raised his hand again as Marie winced, then put his hand back down. “Eh, since your mom thinks you should be spared, I’ll favor her. But don’t you think for a minute you’re off the hook.” He stood up, his full six-foot-two frame towering over Kyle. He grabbed Kyle’s arm roughly. “You’ll pay the $500, you’ll pay for the fucking store window and the medical bills even if you have to become a rent boy to do it. Now go to your room!” Hank gave him a shove, nearly knocking him on his ass. He nodded without ever making eye contact and walked carefully to his room.

Once there, his emotions overtook him, as did the pain. After years of Hank’s brutality, he’d learned to suffer in silence, to never show anyone any emotion, keeping everything either buried deep or only to be expressed in the quiet darkness of his room. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. He crawled into bed, fully clothed, wishing not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that his own father were still alive.

A
NIGHT
of crying and a swollen eye did nothing for Kyle’s looks in the morning. He styled his hair down over his eye to hide the damage, the same way he’d been hiding it for years. He knew it wasn’t hidden well, but no teacher or administrator dared take on his stepfather. Being a union boss in this part of town meant something, and it meant you could get away with just about anything save murder. And even then, probably only a slap on the wrist.

He grabbed his book bag and was about to head out the door when he remembered he had to check in first. He was allowed to go only to and from school, no detours, no stops. At least he didn’t have to be in the house all the time. Although school wasn’t any better. He knew education was the way out of his own personal hell, but his teachers didn’t engage him, with the exception of Mr. Thomas, the art teacher. From a very young age, Kyle knew he was destined to become an artist. Pencil, pen and ink, watercolor, oils, any medium that involved canvas or paper and he was in heaven. Of course, this irked his stepfather to no end. Hank wanted a football or basketball player as a son, not some pansy-ass emo artist. After the first burning, he knew to keep his sketchpads and supplies well hidden and never talk about anything other than the weather.

Kyle dug out his cell phone and dialed the number, waiting for the beeps to plug in the code they gave him to indicate he was leaving the house for school. He now had twenty minutes to get to school, where he’d have to call in the code again. This was going to be a drag, but hell, it kept him out of juvie. If he thought his life was hell now, juvie would be a special subsection of hell. Double hell, or something like that. He trudged out the door, facing the cool April day and another day of boring lectures until he could escape to art class.

“K
YLE
!
Wait up! Yo… Kyle!” Billy was trying to wave him down as he entered the school grounds.

“Billy, you know we aren’t supposed to talk before the trial.” Kyle hoisted his book bag higher on his shoulder and tried to bypass his friend.

“We go to the same school, how can we not talk to each other? We even have a few of the same classes.”

Kyle shrugged, looking defeated. “I guess they won’t know. We are on school grounds.”

Billy stepped in front of him, stopping him. “Damn, your stepdad go at you?”

Kyle looked everywhere but at Billy. “Nothing out of the usual.”

“He’s a big bully.” Billy matched Kyle’s stride as they continued toward the school. “I see you have new jewelry.” Billy pointed down to Kyle’s ankle. “What else happened at the courthouse? After you left the courtroom, I had nothing but time to wonder what was going on. I swear, I didn’t know Mr. Powell fell; after the glass broke, we both hightailed it out of there. The judge wanted to send me to juvie, but I got a hundred dollars bail. I guess being sixteen for a few more days helped out.”