Summer on the Moon (11 page)

“We take care of him until he kicks and the house is ours.”

“That’s cold!”

“Don’t look at me! It was his idea, not ours.”

“What about your dad?”

“Never met the guy,” Socko said. “Listen, you don’t have to walk me. I’m fine.”

She let him get ahead of her, but he could tell she was still there. He could hear her footsteps.

“What grade are you going into?” she called.

“Seventh.”

“Seventh? Really?”

He turned to her and walked backwards a few steps. “I repeated second.” Great, now she thought he was stupid. “You?”

“Eighth.”

He made a right on Tranquility Way, thinking he’d lose her. She made the turn too, just a few steps behind him.

“I’m not following you,” she called to him. “Your house is across the street from mine.”

“How do you know that? There are, like, a gazillion houses here.”

“My father
built
the gazillion houses, remember? I know exactly how many have sold.”

Socko looked back. She held up one finger, and then pointed it at him.

Oh man. So there really was nobody wandering around this neighborhood but him. Him and an albino-blonde girl who talked too much. He pointed at the basketball hoop. “You have a brother?”

“No. Girls can play basketball. Dad and I play sometimes—but not that often. He’s always busy.”

He almost offered to shoot hoops with her—that fall was affecting him worse than he thought. “Gotta go.” He jogged up his driveway.

He looked back when he reached his front door and saw the dark car turn onto Tranquility Way. Livvy wiggled her fingers at it as it passed.

The girl had no street sense. None at all. She’d probably never needed any in “the Heights,” but she wouldn’t last half an hour in his old neighborhood—and this one wasn’t as safe as she thought, even if her daddy did own it.

“It’s not my job to wise her up,” he mumbled. But before opening his front door, he leaned his back against it and watched her jog up her driveway. He didn’t even notice when he dripped blood on Delia’s brand-new beige carpet.

“Who’s the dame?” rasped the General. He was parked, as always, at the front window, an unopened book in his lap.

“Livvy Holmes.”

“Aw, Sacko.” The lone eye glared at Socko’s bloody elbow. “Don’t tell me you can’t even take a girl!”

“Skateboard accident!” He blew past the old man and into the
kitchen. As he held his elbow under the running tap, he heard the click of wheels.

When he turned, the General sat in his wheelchair in the kitchen doorway. “Cute girl.”

“I guess.” Socko pressed a paper towel against the wound.

“You guess? How old are you, Sacko?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen,
sir
. I was thirteen when I had my first serious encounter with Mary O’Malley—she caught me cribbing answers off her in math class.”

“She fell for you because you were cheating?”

“Fell for me? She turned me in! I got detention for two weeks. That Mary O’Malley was a real spitfire, and it wasn’t just her flaming red hair!”

Socko touched his bristly scalp with wet fingers. He had always wondered about his red hair.

The General cocked his head. “You have her hair, all right. Not just the color either. Her hair was thick like yours. Thick and curly.” The old man’s thin lips twisted in a crooked smile. “Glad you let me cut it. Your hairdo was beginning to look exactly like hers. Word of advice, Sacko. When you decide to get interested in girls of the opposite sex—”

Socko glared at the old man. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed girls. Although he’d never talked to her, he had watched Maya Barrios all last year.

“Anyhoo,
when
you get interested in girls, look for a fiery one, one who can dish it out. Fifty-four years is a long time to spend with a limp noodle.”

Delia flung her bags down on the kitchen table and grasped Socko’s chin with one hand. “Look at you!”

He tried to pull away. “Come on, Mom! It’s only a haircut.”

She turned his face back and forth, examining the whitewalls the General had shaved above his ears and the brush cut on top. “A Tarantula haircut!” She let go in disgust.

“For Pete’s sake!” the General sputtered. “Me and the boys defended the world against Hitler and his Nazi thugs wearing that haircut. Now, if you’re done checking out the kid’s scalp, I’m famished!”

Delia tossed a couple of burgers in the microwave, then caught sight of Socko’s bloody arm. “And what’s this?” She twisted his arm so the wound faced her. “How’d you get this?”

“Ow, Mom, go easy! I blew a trick on my skateboard.”

“How did I go wrong?” Delia stared up at the ceiling like she expected God to answer her question.

The microwave beeped. Delia sighed, then slid the plate out and plopped it in the General’s lap. “Dinner is served.”

The General glared at the burger in front of him. “You’ve got to stop knocking yourself out with all this cooking!” He tossed the damp top half of the bun across the room at the garbage can and missed.

“And you’ve got to quit knocking yourself out being polite!” Delia snapped back.

The General spun the wheelchair away from her, nearly dumping the plate off his lap, and rolled into the living room.

It suddenly struck Socko—they hadn’t set the table in this new house even once. Now there was a ketchup-slimed bun on the floor. Was this the “family” Delia had been so happy to get?

Socko was picking up the bun when Delia said, “I saw Damien today.”

He squeezed the damp bun in his hand, then dropped it in the trash. “Yeah?”

“He came into the Phat with Meat and a couple of the other guys.”

The electric zap of fear ran down his spine. “He came in with Tarantulas? Did you talk to him?”

“I talked. He said three words.”

“Three words?”

“Yeah. Three exactly. I asked, ‘How come I haven’t seen you for that reading help we talked about?’ And he said, ‘I been busy.’”

“You asked him about
reading
help?”

“The boy can’t read! So then I asked, ‘How come you haven’t gotten in touch with Socko?’ Meat answered that one: ‘He been busy.’ Meat bought burgers for Damien and the other two. They sat in the corner booth. They were slouching out of there when I said, ‘Hey, throw out your trash!’ All of them kept right on dragging their sorry butts to the door, except Damien. He rushed back and heaped everything on the tray, then he dumped all of it in the trash. He’s still got some good kid in him, I guess.”

“I
know
he does, but we left him behind! He’s just doing what he’s got to do.”

“You sure about that? It’s kinda hard to tell.” She put her knuckles on her hips. “When I saw him with those guys I thought, thank God I got my kid out in time. Then I come home to this!” She leaned toward him and cuffed the back of his head. “What are you doing, joining long-distance?”

“It’s summer!” Socko wiped ketchup off his hand and onto his shorts. “And we live in a friggin’ desert!” He turned to face her. “Are
you really gonna let Rapp have him? Junebug too?”

“You think it’s up to me to save them? Sorry, Socko, but I gotta think about us, in the here and now.”

“Yeah? Well, us in the here and now sucks!”

“Zip it!” the General snapped. “We’ve got company.”

“What do you mean, company?” Delia hustled into the living room, Socko right behind her.

The old man was staring out the window, an alternating blue, white, and red light coloring his waxy face.

Delia grabbed Socko’s injured arm. “What did you
really
do, Socko?”

“Nothing!”

A car door slammed.

The General whistled through his teeth. “Got some size on him.”

Striding the path to the front door was a cop even bigger than Officer Charles, the neighborhood resource officer who had regular “conversations” with the guys at the Kludge. Socko caught a glimpse of a man in a suit and tie pacing the driveway across the street. Had the girl turned him in for skating in the pool?

“Anything you want to confess, boy?” the General rasped, pointing out the clear plastic bag loaded with cans of spray paint swinging from the cop’s fist.

“No! I didn’t do anything!” If skating someplace that wasn’t a skate park was a crime, it shouldn’t be. And he didn’t know a thing about the spray cans in the bag.

“Glad to hear it,” his great-grandfather called as Socko vanished into the kitchen. The old man rolled to the door with surprising speed and whipped it open, startling the chunky officer who stood, fist raised, ready to knock. “Yes?” the General demanded.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. That kind of depends on why you’re here.”

Socko peered around the edge of the door frame. But he pulled back fast.

Although the wheelchair was blocking the door, the cop on the front step was scanning the room.

The General cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’re selling tickets to the policeman’s ball.”

“No, sir. I’d like to have a few words with Socrates Starr if he’s at home.”

“Concerning?”

When Socko snuck another look, his mother was standing behind the General’s chair, the two of them forming a double wall between him and the law.

“There’s been some vandalism at the other end of the project, over near the pool. Graffiti. Some busted windows.”

Socko pressed his forehead against the kitchen wall. Over by the pool? He was just there. He hadn’t seen a thing.

“Who says my boy did it?” asked Delia.

The General cleared his throat again. “My money’s on the stiff in the suit across the street.”

“I’d like to speak to Socrates,” the officer repeated. “Is he at home?”

Back door! Go!
The voice in his head was Damien’s. But Socko didn’t listen. He wasn’t guilty of anything.

He stepped out from behind the kitchen wall. “I’m here.” He wished his voice sounded stronger. “I’m here, but I didn’t do it.”

“Socko, we can handle this!” Delia clasped her hands, pleading with him to disappear.

“I didn’t do it,” Socko repeated. He took a step forward.

His mother’s penciled eyebrows rose in dismay.

“Seems like the boy can handle this himself,” the General said. The wheelchair swept back, and Socko was facing the cop.

His name tag said Officer Dalton Fricke. A walkie-talkie crackled on his belt, all official—yet he looked really young, and his hair was cut just like Socko’s. With a change of clothes he’d fit in fine with Rapp and his boys. But Socko could tell Officer Dalton Fricke was not about to do a fist bump with him.

Socko felt his mother’s hands on his shoulders as the officer’s eyes
flicked down to his shirt. He remembered the words printed on it and almost blurted out how he’d gotten it from the Help Yourself closet—but he knew, when dealing with Officer Friendly, you don’t volunteer anything.

Through the open door Socko watched the man across the street pace back and forth. His necktie was gray. His shoes were shiny. He had the same white-blond hair and invisible eyebrows as Livvy. He had to be the Holmes in Holmes Homes.

The spray cans jostled each other as the officer thrust the bag at him. “Know anything about these?”

“Never seen ’em before.”

“You sure?” Officer Fricke held the bag in front of Socko’s face, as though a closer look might jog Socko’s memory. “The developer said the tagger did a couple thousand dollars worth of damage.”

The bag was in his face, so Socko looked. It was like there was a Help Yourself closet of paints, and the tagger had emptied it. There was paint for metal, paint for plastic—even one can labeled “Clear.” Who ever heard of bombing a wall with clear paint?

“Listen,” Socko blurted out. “There’s been this car cruising the hood. Late model? Black paint job? Tinted windows? I’ve seen it around here three times now. Just this afternoon, in fact.”

Officer Fricke set the plastic bag on the floor, where it rested against the polished toe of his black boot. He extracted a pen from his breast pocket and clicked the point out. “You catch the make on that car?”

“No, but the girl from across the street waved at it when it went by, like, an hour ago.”

The cop clicked the pen again and returned it to his pocket. “That car belongs to a real estate agent who was showing a client a couple of houses on Quarter Moon. She’s the one who found the vandalism.” Quarter Moon was one over from the street that led to the pool. Socko hadn’t seen the vandalism because he hadn’t walked past it.

Officer Fricke toed the bag of cans on the floor. “I’ll bet there are some nice fingerprints on these cans.”

Socko rubbed his damp palms on his pant legs. “They won’t be mine.”

“Are you his mother?” the officer asked Delia.

The hands on Socko’s shoulders squeezed hard. “Yes. And proud of it.”

“I need to fingerprint your son, ma’am. We can do it right here.” He touched a device hanging on his belt.

“No!” Socko was pulled back so hard he had to do a quick skip to avoid falling as Delia stepped in front of him. “No,” she repeated firmly. “I moved my son here so he wouldn’t
ever
get fingerprinted. Come on, officer! He’s only thirteen!”

“These prints are just so we can check for a match. If there’s no match, we dump the prints.” Officer Fricke’s leather boots creaked as he leaned toward her. “Listen, I don’t want to take the boy down to headquarters.”

Socko turned his mother around and held onto her soft upper arms. “It’s okay, Mom,” he whispered. “I didn’t do it.”

She clamped her lips between her teeth and nodded once. Eyes closed, she rested her forehead against his chest.

“Mom?” This was embarrassing.

She squared her shoulders and turned to the officer. “The test can’t mess up? I mean, if he didn’t do it, that machine won’t say he did?”

“No, ma’am. If those are not his fingerprints on the cans, they won’t match.”

“Okay then, do it.” She wandered across the room and fell into the recliner.

Socko watched his thumb leave a wide electronic print as Officer Fricke rolled it across a tiny screen. With a click, the print disappeared. The policeman grabbed Socko’s index finger. He was rolling it across the screen when the General wheeled over to Delia and sat beside her, placing one bony hand on top of her plump one on the arm of the chair. In a second, Socko saw her turn her hand over and grip his.

After taking all ten prints, the officer clipped the device back on his belt and turned to Delia. “Phone number?” He jotted her work number on his pad. “I’ll be in touch.”

The door closed behind him.

“You should’ve called him ‘sir,’” the General told Socko sternly. “Men in positions of minor authority like it.”

Delia walked to the window and threw up her hands. “Take a look!”

Officer Fricke was talking to the man in the driveway.

The General glowered as he rolled to the window. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. The man made a complaint, the officer is updating him. This is America, Delia Marie. With liberty and justice for all.”

“What America do you live in? You got the word of a kid against the word of that big-time developer—one who lies like a rug about all the Phase 2 amenities he’s going to give us, I might add. Who do you think that officer’s gonna believe?”

The General turned the chair toward Socko. “If you didn’t do it, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Your fingerprints will exonerate you.”

Even though he didn’t do it, Socko felt his confidence drain away. Holmes of Holmes Homes was probably best friends with the chief of police.