The Juvie Three by Gordon Korman
At the seventh floor he heads straight for room 704, hoping for a long visit. Dr. Radnor is with John Doe, so Gecko hangs back at the door. Doctor and patient are huddled over a laptop computer.
“Get a grip.” Gecko feels a light kiss on the back of his neck, and Roxanne is at his side.
“What are they doing?” he asks her.
“Watching old news coverage of 9/11. Dr. Radnor’s hoping it’ll trigger memories of people in his life at that time.”
Karen, a nursing assistant, comes up behind them. “Roxanne, take Gecko to the laundry and bring back a load of linens. We’re running short.”
Gecko nearly swallows his lungs. That has always been one of their prime make-out spots. Funny how laundry has become a symbol for the full range of human experience. Misery and dread in Atchison; bliss in the basement of Yorkville Medical Center. And now, amid the roar of industrial-strength washers, with the smell of bleach strong in the air, he has to push away the one person in his life who makes him happy.
Roxanne is setting up a time for them to meet at a movie theater on Saturday, when Gecko suddenly says, “I can’t.”
“Oh, okay. How about Sunday?”
“No, I mean I can’t. Ever.”
“What?” She’s shocked. “Why not?”
Unable to look her in the eye, he focuses on a spot on the wall over her left shoulder. “Look, Roxanne. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Go to movies?” Then she clues in. “You’re dumping me?”
He doesn’t trust his own voice.
She’s upset, but mostly she’s just bewildered. “What happened? Is it because of the boat? Because my dad has money?”
Gecko hardens his heart, trying to recapture his old not thinking. It doesn’t work. She isn’t Reuben, and this is no penny-ante heist. He’s hurting her for no reason—at least none that he can give her, which might as well be the same thing.
“Fine.” She’s speaking to herself as much as Gecko, her agitation spiraling. “This is no big deal! I’m glad it happened!”
“Rox, get a gr—” He stops himself just before it slips out.
“You bastard!” She wheels around and slams a box of powdered detergent into his chest, sending up a cloud of white dust. “Those words meant something to me, even if you were just getting your jollies! You can break up with me, but you’ve forfeited the right to those words from now on!”
She’s making no sense, but he nods feebly, because he feels that bad. “I really didn’t mean it like—”
It’s not enough for Roxanne. “Don’t talk to me! Don’t even look at me! Get out of my hospital!”
And he goes, not even bothering to point out that she doesn’t own Yorkville Medical Center. It’s entirely possible that Daddy bought it for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Terence slouches against one of the huge concrete supports of the elevated FDR Drive, just in from the East River. His hands are jammed in his pockets against the deepening cold of approaching winter. If Healy was still running things, the group leader would have gotten them winter coats. But there’s no point in woulda, shoulda, coulda. Anyway, if tonight goes well, it won’t be long before Terence can afford the warmest coat in New York. Mink, even.
He betrays no discomfort, though, or even the excitement that everything he’s worked for is about to come through. It’s all about attitude when dealing with a guy like DeAndre. Show any weakness and you’re doomed.
DeAndre ambles onto the scene, fashionably late by half an hour. He’s accompanied by four of his crew. Terence recognizes a couple of faces from school. Nobody’s smiling, but that’s part of the game. Terence isn’t either.
“So what’s the story?” Terence opens. “Are we doing business, or what?”
The razor-cut dollar sign stands out in stark contrast in the harsh glare of the streetlight.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, yo,” DeAndre drawls. “I don’t do business with anybody but my crew.”
“Yeah, right,” Terence says sarcastically. “I saw that when you jacked my iPods! Or maybe that doesn’t count because I got stiffed on my own plan!”
DeAndre scowls. “You got a point, make it.”
“I put money in your pocket. I could put a lot more. I’ve earned a place with your crew.”
There’s some discontented mumbling from the group, which DeAndre quells with a single look. To Terence he says, “You think this is some rich-boy fraternity where you learn the secret handshake and you’re in?”
Terence permits himself a ghost of a smile. If DeAndre has allowed the conversation to get to this stage, he’s already decided to let Terence in. The only question is what he wants in return.
“All right, no handshake. What’s the cover charge?”
DeAndre nods approvingly. “Didn’t I tell you he was sharp?”
The five lead Terence a few blocks north to where a group of homeless people huddle around a trash-can fire. On the river side of the roadway is a tiny park, barely a city block, with a children’s playground and a fountain.
At first glance, the place is deserted. But on closer examination, Terence can see a lone bag lady snoozing on a bench. Her grocery cart stands guard beside her, filled with soda cans and other random junk.
“Meet Pauline,” DeAndre announces. “She’s bugging so bad, even the homeless keep their distance.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Terence interrupts impatiently. “Life’s cruel. So what?”
“So that’s your initiation. Take the old girl, tune her up a little, load her in the cart, and dump her in the fountain.”
Terence grins appreciatively. “No problem. You want me to take her to City Hall and marry her before I put her in the drink?”
“Pay attention, yo,” DeAndre reproves. “She wears a ring on her left hand—says it’s her high school ring from back in the day. Bring it to me after—proof the job is done.”
Terence’s smirk disappears abruptly as he realizes DeAndre is serious. “What are you talking about, man? She’s just a crazy old bag. Why would you want anybody to mess with her?”
The razor-cut boy’s expression hardens. “Not so gangster now, huh? Think you’ve got a place in this crew if you’re afraid to get your hands dirty?”
“I do what needs to be done,” Terence insists angrily. “Get me on a score, and you’ve never seen anybody hold his end up better. But this is for nothing! There’s no green in it. Risk without reward, man—that’s not business.”
“My business is to look out for my crew,” DeAndre snarls. “Can we trust you? Maybe, maybe not. But we trust you better if we’ve got something on you. And we’ll know you’re no cop.”
“You’ve already got something on me,” Terence reasons. “I took that iPod from you—receiving stolen goods, B felony. You don’t need this.”
DeAndre is adamant. “I didn’t come looking for you. You came looking for me.”
A sick feeling comes over Terence, and he struggles to maintain his bravado. From the moment he was old enough to realize that his father was a jerk with a mean streak, he’s understood that the solution is to get with a solid crew. When you’re down with the right people, you’ve got it all—respect, protection, money. Nobody messes with you, and when you want something, you call on your dogs to make it happen.
His mind revisits his very first day at Alma K. Walker—DeAndre, fencing cell phones in the can.
I thought DeAndre was that guy for me in New York.
Watching Pauline snooze beside her grocery cart in that parkette, he knows he was very wrong.
He turns to the razor-cut boy. “Forget it, man. I thought you were interested in scoring some green.”
DeAndre’s perma-frown turns ugly. “Maybe where you come from there’s do-overs, but this isn’t something you take back. Either she’s going in the fountain or you are.”
Involuntarily, Terence retreats a step.
DeAndre is triumphant. “You’re nothing! You’re all about picking locks and snatch and grab.
But you can’t handle the heat that comes with it. It’s a package deal, yo. That’s something you’re going to learn tonight.” He nods at his henchmen, and they advance menacingly.
The blurp of a police siren shatters the quiet. A single squad car crawls along the lower roadway and pulls up to the homeless people and their fire.
DeAndre and his crew melt away, but not before the razor-cut boy issues a final warning: “You’ve got the weekend. Bring me the ring on Monday to prove it’s done.” The snake eyes narrow to slits. “The fountain closes for winter; the river’s open all year.”
They scatter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The cake reads GOOD LUCK, VICTORIA, and Dr. Avery is struggling to cut it with a plastic knife. Metal cutlery is banned for any mental health provider that receives state funding. There’s none in apartment 4B either.
It’s a party for Victoria Ko, who is officially graduating from the group that day.
“I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished,” Dr. Avery tells her. “But I have to admit, I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you guys too,” Victoria says emotionally. “Especially you, Dr. Avery. You’ve helped me so much. I brought you a little thank-you present.”
The psychotherapist looks stricken. “Oh, thanks. Uh—you shouldn’t have.” She removes the wrapping paper like a sapper approaching unexploded ordnance. The gift is a Gucci scarf of fine silk that would have set a purchaser back several hundred dollars.
“Nice,” grumbles Drew Roddenbury. “The record companies are going to have me here till I’m seventy, and she’s cured? Give me a break.”
“Drew,” the doctor scolds gently. “You know the first rule of group. Nobody is judged here, and we’re never hurtful to one another.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Casey mutters sarcastically.
Dr. Avery turns to her. “Has someone in this group been unkind to you?”
“Hello! He didn’t even call!” The punk rock girl makes a face at Arjay.
Arjay looks stunned. “I don’t have your number.”
“Ever heard of four-one-one?” she shoots back.
The doctor steps in. “Now, I understand that at your age, people are going to develop feelings for each other. But we must never act on them.”
“Yeah, well, you should have told that to Don Juan on steroids.”
Dr. Avery’s eyes shoot sparks. “Do you mean to tell me that you two have been involved romantically while coming to group?”
The “No!” from Arjay is so plaintive and high-pitched that it seems like the cry of a small child.
“You can say that again!” Casey snorts. “No room for that in his retarded preadolescent rock star fantasy.”
Gecko’s coughing fit draws everyone’s attention, as it was meant to do.
But the therapist has already picked up on the two fateful words. “Rock star?”
“Joey Ramone visits the Big and Tall shop is more like it!”
Dr. Avery’s eyebrows disappear into her perfect hairline. “You—you’re in a band?” she asks Arjay. “And Mr. Healy doesn’t object?”
“He hasn’t said a word against it,” Arjay replies carefully.
Her finely drawn features contract into an expression of perplexity. At last she says, “Please ask Mr. Healy to give me a call at his earliest convenience. I’m not sure I’ve got a handle on what your schedule is like.”
The walk home is very tense after group therapy ends at six o’clock.
“Schedule,” Gecko repeats nervously. “I think that means how does a halfway-house kid with school, community service, and group manage to find time to be in a band.”
“You should have let me handle Casey,” growls Terence in disgust.
“What were you going to do—shoot her?” Arjay challenges.
“I wouldn’t have kissed her, that’s for sure! One round of tonsil hockey, and she’s psycho ’cause you dissed her. Was it worth it, Casanova? This girlfriend thing is the third rail! I told Romeo the same when he started dating the First National Bank of Whatsername.”
Gecko looks grim. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. It’s history. Daddy doesn’t approve of me.”
Arjay glares at Terence. “I had to kiss her. I couldn’t leave her in the hands of a goon like you.”
Terence grabs the bigger boy and wheels him around. “You know nothing about me, man! You killed somebody, and I’m a goon? I’m in a lot of trouble, and you know why? Because I’m not a goon!”
Arjay is instantly alert. “What trouble?”
Terence clams up. “Don’t worry about it. My problem.”
“Your problem is our problem,” puts in Gecko. “What happens to one of us happens to everybody.”
“I’m supposed to tune up this old bag lady and toss her in a fountain, where she’ll probably drown or die of hypothermia,” Terence confesses.
Gecko is horrified. “Why?”
“It’s DeAndre, man. I’ve been trying to get with his crew. Don’t look at me like that! I’m not doing it! And if I say no, I’m the next victim.”
Arjay’s face flames red. “And I’m stupid because I kissed a girl? God, Terence, what’s so important about finding some criminals to hang out with? You’ve been obsessed with that dirtbag since the first day of school!”
Terence tries to explain. “Don’t you get it? I’m not like you guys! Yeah, you’re convicts too. But mostly by accident—bad luck. When all this is over, you’re going to be model citizens. For a guy like me, getting with a good crew is the only place to be! It’s like an insurance policy that nothing bad’s going to happen.”
“That’s bull, and you know it!” Arjay exclaims. “You had your own crew in Chicago, and look what it did for you. You got yourself locked up, same as us.”
Terence looks away. For a moment he studies the facade of the brownstone they’re passing. Finally, he mumbles, “Maybe it wasn’t exactly like what I said.”
“Oh, right,” Gecko sneers. “Healy pulled you out of Mensa, not juvie.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Arjay is clueing in. “There was no crew, was there?”
“There was a crew. Evergreen Southside. My old man is a mean streak hooked up to a fifty-kilowatt speaker. You hear his big mouth a block and a half away: ‘You’re a loser!’ ‘He’s a moron!’ ‘She’s a cow!’ Except when those Southsiders are around. Then it’s like he’s at church. Not a peep. God, I wanted to be one of those guys!” He lapses into a melancholy silence.
“What happened?” Gecko prompts.
Terence’s voice is barely audible. “They wouldn’t let me in. I got good at everything they were good at—better than them. I was a one-man crime wave. Chicago PD doubled foot patrols in the neighborhood, but I was in the zone. I could break into maximum-security lockup and jack the warden’s false teeth. Not good enough for the Southsiders. ‘Take a hike, kid.’”
“A gangster without a gang,” Arjay muses.
“Don’t rub it in, man.”
“So what happened?” Gecko probes.
“I had to show them what I had to offer. I put together a score they couldn’t resist—planned the whole job for them.”
“And you got caught,” Gecko concludes.
“Worse. They pulled it themselves—cut me out, then turned me in to the cops. That was my ticket to juvie.”
“And you did the same thing with DeAndre,” Arjay says wearily. “Man, don’t you learn from experience?”
“I guess not,” Terence mutters. “I guess it’s too much to ask for to get down with some dogs like everybody else.”
“Will you speak English for once?” Arjay explodes. “What about Gecko and me? We’re your dogs! You talk about a crew—we’re the tightest crew that ever existed! We’re together because we’re all screwed! We couldn’t let DeAndre mess with you even if we wanted to. If the cops pick you up with a fractured skull, they’ll figure out who you are, and we all go down. We’ve got your ba
ck because we have no choice!”
They’re standing in front of their building now. Arjay lets them in the front door and then rushes to help Mrs. Liebowitz, who is sweeping the stairs.
She awards them a semi-smile and looks pointedly behind them at the empty space where Douglas Healy should be.
“He’s in meetings all day,” Arjay supplies quickly.
“He certainly trusts you,” she comments.
“That’s because we’re trustworthy, Mrs. L.”
She nods. “You’re a good boy, Arjay. And those two are probably also okay—except maybe him.” She indicates Terence.
“He’s a good boy too,” Arjay assures her.
“I was very hard on you three when you first moved in, and I’m sorry.” She peers intently at them. “Am I wrong to be sorry?”
“No, ma’am. You’re not wrong.”
Once inside apartment 4B, they begin to breathe again.
“She’s not going to hold off forever,” Gecko comments. “She wants to know where Healy is.”
“We just have to keep our heads,” Arjay insists. “There’s nothing we can’t handle if we stick together and don’t do anything stupid.” He hits the button on the telephone answering machine.
“Mr. Healy, it’s Debra Vaughn from Social Services. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get around to you sooner, but my caseload hasn’t allowed it. I will be there on Wednesday at nine a.m. for my evaluation. I’ve let the school know that the boys will be missing their morning classes. Your reports have been exemplary. Let’s hope they represent the true state of affairs.”
When the beep sounds to end the recording, all three of them jump.
Wednesday. Six days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gecko has been to the hospital many times, but this is a first for Arjay and Terence, who never made it past the emergency room door on the night of Healy’s accident.
As they ride up in the elevator, Terence is relentless about the surname on Gecko’s volunteer badge. “Smith—real creative. How long did that brainstorm take you?”
“Like you could do better,” snaps Gecko.
“Get a grip.” Gecko feels a light kiss on the back of his neck, and Roxanne is at his side.
“What are they doing?” he asks her.
“Watching old news coverage of 9/11. Dr. Radnor’s hoping it’ll trigger memories of people in his life at that time.”
Karen, a nursing assistant, comes up behind them. “Roxanne, take Gecko to the laundry and bring back a load of linens. We’re running short.”
Gecko nearly swallows his lungs. That has always been one of their prime make-out spots. Funny how laundry has become a symbol for the full range of human experience. Misery and dread in Atchison; bliss in the basement of Yorkville Medical Center. And now, amid the roar of industrial-strength washers, with the smell of bleach strong in the air, he has to push away the one person in his life who makes him happy.
Roxanne is setting up a time for them to meet at a movie theater on Saturday, when Gecko suddenly says, “I can’t.”
“Oh, okay. How about Sunday?”
“No, I mean I can’t. Ever.”
“What?” She’s shocked. “Why not?”
Unable to look her in the eye, he focuses on a spot on the wall over her left shoulder. “Look, Roxanne. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Go to movies?” Then she clues in. “You’re dumping me?”
He doesn’t trust his own voice.
She’s upset, but mostly she’s just bewildered. “What happened? Is it because of the boat? Because my dad has money?”
Gecko hardens his heart, trying to recapture his old not thinking. It doesn’t work. She isn’t Reuben, and this is no penny-ante heist. He’s hurting her for no reason—at least none that he can give her, which might as well be the same thing.
“Fine.” She’s speaking to herself as much as Gecko, her agitation spiraling. “This is no big deal! I’m glad it happened!”
“Rox, get a gr—” He stops himself just before it slips out.
“You bastard!” She wheels around and slams a box of powdered detergent into his chest, sending up a cloud of white dust. “Those words meant something to me, even if you were just getting your jollies! You can break up with me, but you’ve forfeited the right to those words from now on!”
She’s making no sense, but he nods feebly, because he feels that bad. “I really didn’t mean it like—”
It’s not enough for Roxanne. “Don’t talk to me! Don’t even look at me! Get out of my hospital!”
And he goes, not even bothering to point out that she doesn’t own Yorkville Medical Center. It’s entirely possible that Daddy bought it for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Terence slouches against one of the huge concrete supports of the elevated FDR Drive, just in from the East River. His hands are jammed in his pockets against the deepening cold of approaching winter. If Healy was still running things, the group leader would have gotten them winter coats. But there’s no point in woulda, shoulda, coulda. Anyway, if tonight goes well, it won’t be long before Terence can afford the warmest coat in New York. Mink, even.
He betrays no discomfort, though, or even the excitement that everything he’s worked for is about to come through. It’s all about attitude when dealing with a guy like DeAndre. Show any weakness and you’re doomed.
DeAndre ambles onto the scene, fashionably late by half an hour. He’s accompanied by four of his crew. Terence recognizes a couple of faces from school. Nobody’s smiling, but that’s part of the game. Terence isn’t either.
“So what’s the story?” Terence opens. “Are we doing business, or what?”
The razor-cut dollar sign stands out in stark contrast in the harsh glare of the streetlight.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, yo,” DeAndre drawls. “I don’t do business with anybody but my crew.”
“Yeah, right,” Terence says sarcastically. “I saw that when you jacked my iPods! Or maybe that doesn’t count because I got stiffed on my own plan!”
DeAndre scowls. “You got a point, make it.”
“I put money in your pocket. I could put a lot more. I’ve earned a place with your crew.”
There’s some discontented mumbling from the group, which DeAndre quells with a single look. To Terence he says, “You think this is some rich-boy fraternity where you learn the secret handshake and you’re in?”
Terence permits himself a ghost of a smile. If DeAndre has allowed the conversation to get to this stage, he’s already decided to let Terence in. The only question is what he wants in return.
“All right, no handshake. What’s the cover charge?”
DeAndre nods approvingly. “Didn’t I tell you he was sharp?”
The five lead Terence a few blocks north to where a group of homeless people huddle around a trash-can fire. On the river side of the roadway is a tiny park, barely a city block, with a children’s playground and a fountain.
At first glance, the place is deserted. But on closer examination, Terence can see a lone bag lady snoozing on a bench. Her grocery cart stands guard beside her, filled with soda cans and other random junk.
“Meet Pauline,” DeAndre announces. “She’s bugging so bad, even the homeless keep their distance.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Terence interrupts impatiently. “Life’s cruel. So what?”
“So that’s your initiation. Take the old girl, tune her up a little, load her in the cart, and dump her in the fountain.”
Terence grins appreciatively. “No problem. You want me to take her to City Hall and marry her before I put her in the drink?”
“Pay attention, yo,” DeAndre reproves. “She wears a ring on her left hand—says it’s her high school ring from back in the day. Bring it to me after—proof the job is done.”
Terence’s smirk disappears abruptly as he realizes DeAndre is serious. “What are you talking about, man? She’s just a crazy old bag. Why would you want anybody to mess with her?”
The razor-cut boy’s expression hardens. “Not so gangster now, huh? Think you’ve got a place in this crew if you’re afraid to get your hands dirty?”
“I do what needs to be done,” Terence insists angrily. “Get me on a score, and you’ve never seen anybody hold his end up better. But this is for nothing! There’s no green in it. Risk without reward, man—that’s not business.”
“My business is to look out for my crew,” DeAndre snarls. “Can we trust you? Maybe, maybe not. But we trust you better if we’ve got something on you. And we’ll know you’re no cop.”
“You’ve already got something on me,” Terence reasons. “I took that iPod from you—receiving stolen goods, B felony. You don’t need this.”
DeAndre is adamant. “I didn’t come looking for you. You came looking for me.”
A sick feeling comes over Terence, and he struggles to maintain his bravado. From the moment he was old enough to realize that his father was a jerk with a mean streak, he’s understood that the solution is to get with a solid crew. When you’re down with the right people, you’ve got it all—respect, protection, money. Nobody messes with you, and when you want something, you call on your dogs to make it happen.
His mind revisits his very first day at Alma K. Walker—DeAndre, fencing cell phones in the can.
I thought DeAndre was that guy for me in New York.
Watching Pauline snooze beside her grocery cart in that parkette, he knows he was very wrong.
He turns to the razor-cut boy. “Forget it, man. I thought you were interested in scoring some green.”
DeAndre’s perma-frown turns ugly. “Maybe where you come from there’s do-overs, but this isn’t something you take back. Either she’s going in the fountain or you are.”
Involuntarily, Terence retreats a step.
DeAndre is triumphant. “You’re nothing! You’re all about picking locks and snatch and grab.
The blurp of a police siren shatters the quiet. A single squad car crawls along the lower roadway and pulls up to the homeless people and their fire.
DeAndre and his crew melt away, but not before the razor-cut boy issues a final warning: “You’ve got the weekend. Bring me the ring on Monday to prove it’s done.” The snake eyes narrow to slits. “The fountain closes for winter; the river’s open all year.”
They scatter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The cake reads GOOD LUCK, VICTORIA, and Dr. Avery is struggling to cut it with a plastic knife. Metal cutlery is banned for any mental health provider that receives state funding. There’s none in apartment 4B either.
It’s a party for Victoria Ko, who is officially graduating from the group that day.
“I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished,” Dr. Avery tells her. “But I have to admit, I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you guys too,” Victoria says emotionally. “Especially you, Dr. Avery. You’ve helped me so much. I brought you a little thank-you present.”
The psychotherapist looks stricken. “Oh, thanks. Uh—you shouldn’t have.” She removes the wrapping paper like a sapper approaching unexploded ordnance. The gift is a Gucci scarf of fine silk that would have set a purchaser back several hundred dollars.
“Nice,” grumbles Drew Roddenbury. “The record companies are going to have me here till I’m seventy, and she’s cured? Give me a break.”
“Drew,” the doctor scolds gently. “You know the first rule of group. Nobody is judged here, and we’re never hurtful to one another.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Casey mutters sarcastically.
Dr. Avery turns to her. “Has someone in this group been unkind to you?”
“Hello! He didn’t even call!” The punk rock girl makes a face at Arjay.
Arjay looks stunned. “I don’t have your number.”
“Ever heard of four-one-one?” she shoots back.
The doctor steps in. “Now, I understand that at your age, people are going to develop feelings for each other. But we must never act on them.”
“Yeah, well, you should have told that to Don Juan on steroids.”
Dr. Avery’s eyes shoot sparks. “Do you mean to tell me that you two have been involved romantically while coming to group?”
The “No!” from Arjay is so plaintive and high-pitched that it seems like the cry of a small child.
“You can say that again!” Casey snorts. “No room for that in his retarded preadolescent rock star fantasy.”
Gecko’s coughing fit draws everyone’s attention, as it was meant to do.
But the therapist has already picked up on the two fateful words. “Rock star?”
“Joey Ramone visits the Big and Tall shop is more like it!”
Dr. Avery’s eyebrows disappear into her perfect hairline. “You—you’re in a band?” she asks Arjay. “And Mr. Healy doesn’t object?”
“He hasn’t said a word against it,” Arjay replies carefully.
Her finely drawn features contract into an expression of perplexity. At last she says, “Please ask Mr. Healy to give me a call at his earliest convenience. I’m not sure I’ve got a handle on what your schedule is like.”
The walk home is very tense after group therapy ends at six o’clock.
“Schedule,” Gecko repeats nervously. “I think that means how does a halfway-house kid with school, community service, and group manage to find time to be in a band.”
“You should have let me handle Casey,” growls Terence in disgust.
“What were you going to do—shoot her?” Arjay challenges.
“I wouldn’t have kissed her, that’s for sure! One round of tonsil hockey, and she’s psycho ’cause you dissed her. Was it worth it, Casanova? This girlfriend thing is the third rail! I told Romeo the same when he started dating the First National Bank of Whatsername.”
Gecko looks grim. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. It’s history. Daddy doesn’t approve of me.”
Arjay glares at Terence. “I had to kiss her. I couldn’t leave her in the hands of a goon like you.”
Terence grabs the bigger boy and wheels him around. “You know nothing about me, man! You killed somebody, and I’m a goon? I’m in a lot of trouble, and you know why? Because I’m not a goon!”
Arjay is instantly alert. “What trouble?”
Terence clams up. “Don’t worry about it. My problem.”
“Your problem is our problem,” puts in Gecko. “What happens to one of us happens to everybody.”
“I’m supposed to tune up this old bag lady and toss her in a fountain, where she’ll probably drown or die of hypothermia,” Terence confesses.
Gecko is horrified. “Why?”
“It’s DeAndre, man. I’ve been trying to get with his crew. Don’t look at me like that! I’m not doing it! And if I say no, I’m the next victim.”
Arjay’s face flames red. “And I’m stupid because I kissed a girl? God, Terence, what’s so important about finding some criminals to hang out with? You’ve been obsessed with that dirtbag since the first day of school!”
Terence tries to explain. “Don’t you get it? I’m not like you guys! Yeah, you’re convicts too. But mostly by accident—bad luck. When all this is over, you’re going to be model citizens. For a guy like me, getting with a good crew is the only place to be! It’s like an insurance policy that nothing bad’s going to happen.”
“That’s bull, and you know it!” Arjay exclaims. “You had your own crew in Chicago, and look what it did for you. You got yourself locked up, same as us.”
Terence looks away. For a moment he studies the facade of the brownstone they’re passing. Finally, he mumbles, “Maybe it wasn’t exactly like what I said.”
“Oh, right,” Gecko sneers. “Healy pulled you out of Mensa, not juvie.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Arjay is clueing in. “There was no crew, was there?”
“There was a crew. Evergreen Southside. My old man is a mean streak hooked up to a fifty-kilowatt speaker. You hear his big mouth a block and a half away: ‘You’re a loser!’ ‘He’s a moron!’ ‘She’s a cow!’ Except when those Southsiders are around. Then it’s like he’s at church. Not a peep. God, I wanted to be one of those guys!” He lapses into a melancholy silence.
“What happened?” Gecko prompts.
Terence’s voice is barely audible. “They wouldn’t let me in. I got good at everything they were good at—better than them. I was a one-man crime wave. Chicago PD doubled foot patrols in the neighborhood, but I was in the zone. I could break into maximum-security lockup and jack the warden’s false teeth. Not good enough for the Southsiders. ‘Take a hike, kid.’”
“A gangster without a gang,” Arjay muses.
“Don’t rub it in, man.”
“So what happened?” Gecko probes.
“I had to show them what I had to offer. I put together a score they couldn’t resist—planned the whole job for them.”
“And you got caught,” Gecko concludes.
“Worse. They pulled it themselves—cut me out, then turned me in to the cops. That was my ticket to juvie.”
“And you did the same thing with DeAndre,” Arjay says wearily. “Man, don’t you learn from experience?”
“I guess not,” Terence mutters. “I guess it’s too much to ask for to get down with some dogs like everybody else.”
“Will you speak English for once?” Arjay explodes. “What about Gecko and me? We’re your dogs! You talk about a crew—we’re the tightest crew that ever existed! We’re together because we’re all screwed! We couldn’t let DeAndre mess with you even if we wanted to. If the cops pick you up with a fractured skull, they’ll figure out who you are, and we all go down. We’ve got your ba
They’re standing in front of their building now. Arjay lets them in the front door and then rushes to help Mrs. Liebowitz, who is sweeping the stairs.
She awards them a semi-smile and looks pointedly behind them at the empty space where Douglas Healy should be.
“He’s in meetings all day,” Arjay supplies quickly.
“He certainly trusts you,” she comments.
“That’s because we’re trustworthy, Mrs. L.”
She nods. “You’re a good boy, Arjay. And those two are probably also okay—except maybe him.” She indicates Terence.
“He’s a good boy too,” Arjay assures her.
“I was very hard on you three when you first moved in, and I’m sorry.” She peers intently at them. “Am I wrong to be sorry?”
“No, ma’am. You’re not wrong.”
Once inside apartment 4B, they begin to breathe again.
“She’s not going to hold off forever,” Gecko comments. “She wants to know where Healy is.”
“We just have to keep our heads,” Arjay insists. “There’s nothing we can’t handle if we stick together and don’t do anything stupid.” He hits the button on the telephone answering machine.
“Mr. Healy, it’s Debra Vaughn from Social Services. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get around to you sooner, but my caseload hasn’t allowed it. I will be there on Wednesday at nine a.m. for my evaluation. I’ve let the school know that the boys will be missing their morning classes. Your reports have been exemplary. Let’s hope they represent the true state of affairs.”
When the beep sounds to end the recording, all three of them jump.
Wednesday. Six days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gecko has been to the hospital many times, but this is a first for Arjay and Terence, who never made it past the emergency room door on the night of Healy’s accident.
As they ride up in the elevator, Terence is relentless about the surname on Gecko’s volunteer badge. “Smith—real creative. How long did that brainstorm take you?”
“Like you could do better,” snaps Gecko.