

### The Wrong Side of the Tracks

### Book 1

### by

### Mike Wells

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Mike Wells

http://www.mikewellsbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Praise for Mike Wells' The Wrong Side of the Tracks

5 STARS! "Ben McClean is a modern-day Huck Finn, what an awesome character! I loved him! The Wrong Side of the Tracks was a fabulous page-turner, kept me glued to my Kindle for hours."

5 STARS! I bought this book for my 14 year old son but read it first out of curiosity; this was a heartfelt story, very moving, and reminded me of what it was like to be a teenager, all the problems, angst, bullying, argh!—what tough years those were, wouldn't want to repeat them for anything! Well done, Mike Wells! I just downloaded Wild Child and the sequel book, can't wait to read those, too. Super!

5 STARS! "An arrow straight to the heart! Fantastic book!"

5 STARS! "My heart was in my throat at several places in this story—the pace was great, read the whole book in 2 sittings. I was sad about the ending but it had a good lesson in it, I think. I'm going to give this to my twin boys to read."

5 STARS! "I cannot imagine any reader with a heart and soul not enjoying this story. I have read four other Mike Wells books and, in my humble opinion, this is his best work, the one with the deepest feelings and the story that is most poignant. I would call this book LITERATURE in the purest sense of the word (I am a high school English teacher)"

5 STARS! "The stunts the kids were doing with the freight trains scared the hell out of me. We live near railroad tracks and now I wonder what goes on over there—I sure hope nothing like what was in this book The Wrong Side of the Tracks. Anyhow this story was really gripping and really funny, too, I like Mike Wells and now I have 3 of his books on my iPad. He has a really good blog, too, you should check that out.

5 STARS! "I am 15 (boy) and I do not read many books but I liked this book. It was interesting and I was liking Ben from the start he's a cool character I know a guy kind of like him at school. I love how this ending is I want to read more books by Mike Wells, he is a really good writer."

5 STARS! "First love, adventure, spills and thrills—a colorful cast of characters and a darn good tale, very realistic—I wonder how autobiographical this is? Apparently very much so from what was written on the author's blog. Excellent book! My advice is to write more like this one."

5 STARS! "I noticed a lot of young people reading this book (in reviews) but I am 72 and I really loved it, brought back so many memories, like one other person said, it really made me remember being that age and also the crushes I had and how I was helpless to do anything about them. I was a very shy kid, so much like Stephen in this story. A spectacular book! I hope Mr. Wells can make The Wrong Side of the Tracks into a movie!
For James

Book 1

Chapter 1.1

Stephen climbed up onto the railroad line and looked down at the bend. The seven o'clock freight train wasn't in sight. The tracks were desolate, the trees lining both sides still visible in the dusk light.

Stephen was glad. He had been trying to wrench himself away from Ben and Tommy for the past half hour—he didn't want them to witness what he was about to do.

He knelt down beside one rail and, using a roll of masking tape, attached three new, shiny pennies to the track. Pennies smashed by the train made nice necklaces. At least Stephen thought so. Hopefully one of the pennies would be flattened smoothly enough to make a good one for Kristine Elliot.

"Hey, Stephen," a voice called.

Stephen quickly stood up.

It was Ben. And behind Ben, Ben's little brother, Tommy.

The two sauntered up to Stephen, looking down at the pennies taped to the rail.

Ben touched one with the toe of his bare foot. "What are you doing that for?" Ben thought smashing pennies on the train tracks was kid stuff.

"Makin' a necklace," Stephen said defensively.

"Necklaces are for pussies."

"It's not for me."

"Who's it for, then?"

"Kristine Elliot."

Ben stared at Stephen. "You're makin' a necklace for Kristine Elliot?"

"Stephen has a giiiiirl-friend," Tommy sang. "Stephen has a giiiirl-friend!"

"Shut up," Ben said, lightly swatting Tommy on the head. He was only ten.

"Tomorrow is Kristine's birthday," Stephen said. "I just thought I'd give her a birthday present, that's all. It's no big deal."

Ben lit up a cigarette and blew out the smoke, studying Stephen's face. He seemed to see Stephen in a new light. They had often talked about girls, but as Stephen was only 14 and Ben 17, for Stephen it was only in theory. Now Ben saw that he was actually interested in a real, live female.

"Ray Hatcher won't like it. You know Kristine is his girlfriend, don't you?"

Ray Hatcher was in the 11th grade. A big oaf who could crush Stephen like a bug. "Of course I know that. But he doesn't own her. Anyway, Kristine and I are just friends."

"I get the feeling you and Kristine are more than friends."

Stephen felt himself blushing. "I don't know....maybe."

"You better watch your ass, Stephen."

Stephen didn't say anything. Ben watched him another moment, finishing his cigarette. He threw the butt down on the railroad ties and ground it out with the heel of his bare foot.

"Awesome," Tommy said.

This always impressed Tommy. In warm weather, Ben never wore shoes except when he had to, like to go to school. He loved the outdoors. He had calluses on the bottoms of his feet that were so thick they were almost like sandals, so he said.

"Well," Ben said, "if you're going to make a necklace, at least do it right." He stepped over to the rail and peered down at the pennies in the semi-dark. "You put on too much tape on that one..."

Ben made some adjustments, pulling up some of the tape. If you put on too much, the penny would get run over too many times and be pulverized into a thin slice of copper foil, no good for anything.

Tommy screamed so loudly and unexpectedly that Stephen started. "Train! It's coming, it's coming!"

Stephen and Ben turned and looked down the tracks. It was only an automobile that had stopped on the Tomlinson Pike crossing. It continued on its way.

"That's not the train, you little fart." Ben pushed his little brother over with a shove of his foot. Tommy fell on his side. He lay there for a few seconds, until he realized the iron rail was bisecting his midsection, then leaped up and scrambled into the ditch that ran alongside the tracks.

"What a pussy," Ben said, laughing. Tommy was deathly afraid of the train. He had to work up his nerve to put his head down against the tracks to listen for it, even when the train was nowhere in sight.

"I'm not a pussy," Tommy said, though Stephen doubted that the boy even knew what the word meant. Thrusting out his lower lip in defiance, Tommy climbed back up onto the tracks and stood next to Stephen and Ben.

"Go home," Ben ordered.

Tommy stubbornly shook his head.

"Go home. This is no place for little kids."

"I'm not a little kid. Anyway, you're s'posed to be watching me."

Ben gave Stephen a frustrated look. Ben's mother and father both worked, and he was supposed to look after Tommy until one of them came home, which could be at any hour. Ben's father was a construction worker and usually came home drunk, if at all. His mother supposedly had a job "at a store," but Stephen half-wondered if she was a prostitute. She sometimes came home and cooked supper, then was off again if her husband wasn't home, wearing gaudy makeup and tight-fitting clothes.

"If you're not a kid," Ben said to Tommy, "then you don't need nobody to look after you. So just go home."

"No." He stuck out his chest. "I'm staying here with you guys."

Ben took a menacing step towards Tommy, and the boy backed away. "Mama said you better not hit me again!"

Ben gritted his teeth, but then seemed to regain control of himself. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "You want to end up like Eddie Bumpus, Tommy?"

Tommy's skin turned so pale his freckles seemed to be penciled onto his face. Eddie Bumpus was an eight year old boy who had been run over by the train. The grisly event had happened about five years ago, long before Stephen had moved into the neighborhood, but he had heard the story so many times he felt like he had been there himself. Eddie Bumpus had been trying to find Sparky, his cocker spaniel. Instead, Eddie had gotten run over himself. All the local kids had rushed to the scene, and most of them had shared what they had witnessed with Stephen in graphic detail. One particularly troubling image was that Eddie's legs had been sliced so cleanly in two that, from the side, they looked like "one of those diagrams in a medical book, where you can see layers of bone, muscle, skin..." This particular description, in fact, had come from Ben.

"You're just trying to scare me," Tommy said.

"Just go home!" Ben shouted, unable to fight his anger any longer.

Tommy stuck out his lower lip again. "Why don't you try and make me?"

Ben's right hand shot out and slapped Tommy hard this time. The blow was so crisp and unexpected it nearly knocked the boy down. When Tommy regained his balance, he held his hand to his cheek, a look of utter surprise on his reddening face. He started to take a kick at Ben, but then seemed to think the better of it and instead kicked the gravel between the railroad ties. Rocks flew. A few pebbles struck Ben in the chest. Stephen ducked as a rather large stone whizzed past his head.

Before Ben could grab him, Tommy leaped into the ditch and started running through the bushes towards home. Ben tore out in pursuit, cursing under his breath. Ben never wore shoes or a shirt if the weather was warm, as it had been all week, even though it was late September. His lean, tanned, muscular form raced through the brush, the thorns ripping at his faded jeans. He reminded Stephen of a wild American Indian, like in the old westerns on TV.

Stephen looked back down the tracks and noticed that another car had stopped at the crossing. He thought it might be the same car as before, headed the other way on the street. Whoever it was had stopped right on the tracks. Stephen thought he saw a flashlight beam pointed in their direction, but he wasn't sure.

"Ben!" Stephen yelled. "Come here, quick!"

Ben climbed back up on the tracks, breathing hard. Tommy was behind him, covered with dirt.

"What?" Ben said.

"Look!"

Ben turned his head just in time to see the car move on.

"I thought I saw a flashlight or something," Stephen said.

"Ah, that don't mean nothin'," Ben said. "Lots of people stop and look down the tracks." But Ben looked uneasy. Stephen had never seen the infamous "train detective" who kept an eye on the tracks, but Ben had. In fact, Ben had been caught by him. It happened two years ago, when Ben was 15. The detective had written his name down in a big black book and told him that if he was ever caught on the tracks again, he would have to go to juvenile court.

"Hey, look," Ben said, pointing in the direction of the bend again.

Stephen's heartbeat quickened. "What?"

"Train!" Tommy screamed. "It's really comin', it's really comin'!"

Now Stephen could clearly see the locomotive's rotating beacon, far beyond the Tomlinson Pike intersection, sweeping out circles through the treetops.

Tommy immediately jumped down into the ditch and started running towards home. When the engines passed, he never came any closer than the edge of the woods that separated their neighborhood from the tracks.

Stephen climbed down into the ditch and squatted in the bushes, a position from which he hoped he could watch the wheels crush his pennies. Stephen was a little bit afraid of the train, too, but only if he was close to the tracks, as he planned to be today. But after what Ben had said about Kristine Elliot and Ray Hatcher, he felt little concern about the train. The only sensation he felt was that queasiness in his stomach.

He knew very well that Kristine was Hatcher's girlfriend, but he had somehow managed to ignore this fact, or at least push it to the back of his mind, as he had gotten to know her. Now, Stephen was angry at himself for thinking that he might have a chance with Kristine Elliot. She was probably the prettiest girl in the entire ninth grade class, and Ray Hatcher was two years older than Stephen, in the eleventh grade. To make matters worse, Hatcher was a jock. He was on the football team and seemed to be the center of attention everywhere he went. Stephen loathed school sports, and Ben did, too. The one time they had gone to a football game, they had spent the entire time hiding under the bleachers and annoying girls by grabbing their ankles and pinching their behinds.

At their school, team sports seemed only for the rich kids, probably because the rich kids were the only ones who had parents that would fork over the money to buy equipment. It wasn't like the school gave you the stuff. And rides to practice and all that. Ray Hatcher even had his own car, a brand new Porsche, that his parents had bought him. Stephen couldn't imagine having a car. Ben only dreamed of it, someday, after he would graduate and get some kind of job.

Stephen was so lost in his school thoughts that he was barely aware of the approaching train. He was sure that to Kristine, he was nothing but a boy who hung around the railroad tracks with a bunch of scummy kids. Why in the world would a girl like her be interested in him?

He looked at the rail, at his taped-down pennies, now thinking that Ben was probably right—giving Kristine a necklace might not be such a good idea. Ray Hatcher was a big, mean son-of-a-bitch. He would probably kick Stephen's little 9th grade butt if he knew she had ever spoken to Stephen, let alone that Stephen was giving her presents.

"Benny, hurry, the train's coming!" Tommy shouted, pulling Stephen out of his thoughts. Stephen was surprised to see that Ben was casually walking down the tracks, as if the train was nowhere in sight.

"Benny! The train's coming!" Tommy yelled again, his voice increasing in pitch.

"Here Sparky, here Sparky," Ben called, looking to his left, then to the right. "Come on, boy. Where are you?"

Stephen laughed out loud, but it was cut off by Tommy's yelling. "The train's really coming, Benny! Watch out! Benny, watch out!"

Ben seemed oblivious to his brother's screams and continued to walk down the tracks, looking this way and that, his back to the approaching train. "Heeeeere Sparky, heeeere Sparky...come on, boy. Where are you, you little mutt?"

"Benny!" Tommy shouted, his voice even higher and panicky. "Benny, please, get away, the train's coming!" He was standing at the sagging fence at the edge of the woods, one hand clutching the rusty wire, the other curled into a tight, nervous fist which bobbed up and down as he yelled.

The train was close enough now that Stephen could hear its thundering double engines. But Ben continued wandering down the tracks, to the left and right, occasionally standing up on one rail with one foot, calling for Sparky.

The act was so convincing that Stephen himself started to feel anxious. Stephen took two steps up the embankment, so that his waist was at track-level. "You better be careful!" he called out to Ben, but the rumble of the engines had become so forceful that his voice was lost in it. The train was less than a quarter mile away, and closing fast.

There were three long blasts from the train's air horn. Stephen jumped back down into the ditch. The engineer had spotted Ben, and possibly Stephen as well. But Ben didn't seem to notice or care.

Now, Tommy had started wailing. "Please don't die, Benny! Please don't die!"

Ben finally stopped walking at a point where he was directly adjacent to Tommy, and only a few feet from Stephen. He looked to the left of the tracks, then to the right, shaking his head. "That damn Sparky! Where is he?" Ben had to shout above the rumbling of the approaching engines to make sure Tommy could hear him.

Stephen thought the game was over, and that Ben would jump down into the bushes. But to Stephen's astonishment, Ben sat down smack in the middle of the tracks.

"Well, I guess I'll just have me a little nap until Sparky comes back," Ben said. He lay down on his back, his head towards the oncoming train, his arms and legs spread out so that his fingers and toes touched the insides of the rails.

"Benny!" Tommy screamed. The terrified boy took a step towards the tracks, then looked at the massive engines and stepped back to the fence again, clinging to it. "Get up, Benny, get up!"

Ben just smiled, staring up at the sky, spread-eagled between the rails. This was a trick that Stephen had seen before, but he thought Ben was crazy for doing it. Ben claimed he could tell exactly how far away the train was by the vibration in the rails, and that if he wanted, he could sit on the rails blindfolded and know exactly when to jump out of the way.

The train's horn blasted three more times. Stephen could clearly see the engineer's head protruding from the window of the first engine. He felt a flicker of hope that the engineer might put on the brakes, but then remembered that it takes at least a mile to bring a freight train to a stop. This was what Ben had told him, and Ben seemed to know everything there was to know about trains. And now, this particular train was less than 100 yards away.

"Benny, please don't die, Benny," Tommy was still screaming. "Please don't die!"

Ben laughed out loud, but continued to stare up at the sky.

The train bore down on them. 70 yards, 60 yards, 50 yards...

Stephen felt his body growing tense. "Ben, you better get up now!" he called, though the rumbling of the engines was so intense that he knew Ben couldn't hear him. Then a strange buzzing sound caught Stephen's attention. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and seemed to come from everywhere. Stephen quickly pinpointed the source. One of his pennies, the first one with the tape only on the back, was vibrating crazily against the iron rail.

Everything was out control.

The horn blasted again. Now, the train was so close it would reach Ben in a matter of seconds.

Ben seemed frozen, still staring up at the heavens. Stephen felt an impulse to run up onto the tracks and try to pull Ben down into the ditch, but then changed his mind when he looked up at the monstrous engine. Ben was too far away—the train would reach him long before Stephen could.

In that moment, Stephen was certain that Ben was going to die.

In a span of one second, he saw all the ensuing events. He imagined himself in homeroom the next day, listening to the morbid news as John Prescott, president of the senior class and captain of the football team, gave the morning announcements over the loudspeaker. Then he was at Ben's funeral. He could vividly see Ben's weeping mother standing bedside a gaping hole in the ground; Ben's father, clean shaven for the first time in his adult life, standing beside his wife, his face pale and drawn; Tommy, clinging to his mother with tears streaming down his face, wailing "No, Benny, please don't die—"

All at once, Ben came to life.

He yanked his arms and legs in, away from the rails, streamlining his body. Then, in one quick and calculated movement, he rolled over the rail on Stephen's side of the tracks. Before Stephen could take another breath, the engines roared past them. The engineer was yelling something at Ben, then at Stephen. The furious man was leaning out the window, screaming with such ferocity his face was purple, but Stephen could only see his mouth moving-the deafening roar of the engines completely obliterated the sound of his voice.

After the engines passed, Stephen made his way over to Ben. He was curled into a ball in the ditch, laughing his head off.

"Don't die, Benny, don't die," he howled, mimicking Tommy. "Did you hear him, Stephen?"

"Yeah," Stephen muttered.

Tommy was slowly making his way through the brush towards them. He wasn't afraid to be close to the train after the engines passed, as long as Ben was there, too. Now, a series of boxcars were passing and the rumbling of the engines was fading.

"Did you hear him?" Ben said again, as he stood up and brushed himself off.

"I heard him," Stephen said. But he did not laugh, or even smile.

Tommy soon reached the tracks, glancing up every now and then at the passing cars. He stood farther away from Ben than usual.

Ben looked at Tommy, then at Stephen. "What did you think, I was really gonna let the train run over me?" He laughed again. "I'm not that stupid."

Stephen wanted to say that he didn't think it was funny, but he kept his mouth shut—he was afraid Ben would just call him a pussy.

There was an awkward moment between them, the only sounds being the clicking and clacking of the boxcars that were rolling by. The train always slowed down after the engines passed. There was a bridge about a mile down the tracks, and the locomotive always decelerated before crossing it.

"You see your pennies anywhere?" Ben said, as if to change the subject.

"No," Stephen said. "I think they all bounced off before the wheels hit them."

The three boys stood in silence and watched the box cars pass by, then the flat cars. Soon, the big-bellied tank cars began to pass by. The train had slowed to no more than 10 or 12 miles per hour.

Ben glanced at Stephen. "Look how slow it's going."

"I see," Stephen said uneasily. He knew what Ben was going to say.

"There's a long, long time between the wheels, Stephen."

Stephen did not respond.

"At this speed, I could roll under and back if I wanted to."

"I'm sure you could."

Ben glanced at Stephen. "You could, too."

"No I can't."

"Yes you can."

"Well, maybe I don't want to."

"Why not? You want to stay a pussy all your life?"

"No. I just don't see the point to it, that's all."

Ben's famous "tank car roll" was something that Ben had been pressuring Stephen to do ever since they had met. Actually, it didn't look that difficult. The tank cars were the longest cars on the train, with the most distance between their two sets of wheels. And there was also plenty of clearance under their cylindrical tanks—you could almost crouch and pass underneath one to the other side of the rails, though Ben said he always rolled under them just in case there was a loose piece of metal or something else unexpected that might snag him.

But Stephen really didn't see any point to it. To him, it was just a reckless, daredevil stunt.

"The point is," Ben continued, as if he had overheard Stephen's thoughts, "if you do it, you'll be a real bad-ass, like me. Nobody will mess with you."

Stephen considered this, almost wishing it were true. There was no doubt in his mind that Ben McClean had a reputation for being a bad-ass and that nobody would "mess with him," as he put it. But Stephen doubted it was because of his tank car roll stunt. It was because Ben had the fastest fists around. He had a reputation for being able to put you out of commission before you even knew what had happened.

But Ben's talent with his fists weren't the only reason people were wary of him. Ben had an older brother who was serving a life sentence in a Texas prison for beating some traffic cop to death over a parking ticket. Everybody at school knew about the scandal and steered clear of Ben, probably thinking that if his big brother was capable of killing somebody, he was too.

"Last car's comin!" Tommy yelled.

Stephen and Ben both looked down the tracks—the last train car was indeed approaching, only five or six cars away.

Suddenly, Ben started running alongside the train. Within a few seconds, he leaped up onto a ladder on the back of the second-to-last car. He hung onto a handrail and leaned out over the tracks, swinging from one hand like a monkey at the zoo, grinning at Tommy.

Tommy laughed, but there was an uneasy strain in his voice.

Ben only rode the train a few seconds—he jumped off and down into the bushes, rolling over a couple of times. He stood up, brushed himself off, and watched the last car roll by. Ben had told Stephen that he had ridden the train many miles in both directions, just to see where it went. He had tried to talk Stephen into riding it, too, but Stephen refused. It looked hard enough to jump onto one of the cars. Jumping off looked even more difficult. It was amazing to him that Ben could do it without being hurt.

When the last car passed, Tommy skittered up to the place where Stephen had left the pennies. Ben and Stephen joined him for the search.

Stephen immediately spotted one of his pennies, or what was left of it. Its remains were still stuck to the rail, ground so thin it looked like copper foil.

"Awesome!" Tommy said, squatting beside the rail. He rubbed his finger across the traces of smashed metal and started peeling them off.

"Too much tape," Ben said.

They searched a little more, moving up and down the rails.

"I found another one!" Tommy said.

Stephen took it from Tommy's small, dirty hand and inspected it. There was a thick slice down one side of it.

"You don't know how to smash a good penny," Ben told Stephen.

Stephen tossed it over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Tommy shouted, "I want it!" The boy half-slid, half-fell down the gravel embankment to look for it.

Stephen and Ben searched for the third penny a few more minutes, but it was in vain. It seemed to have vanished. Stephen walked slowly along the rail, scanning in between the ties one last time, thinking that maybe this was a bad sign. Maybe Ben was right and this not being able to find the third penny was an omen—giving Kristine Elliot a birthday present might be a big mistake.

Just when Stephen was about to give up his search, Ben said, "Hey, I found it!"

Stephen turned around. Ben was grinning at him, holding an oval-shaped piece of copper between his long, tanned fingers.

Ben tossed the coin to him. "Looks like a good one to me."

Stephen inspected it—it was hard to see in the semidark. Stephen ran his thumb across the smooth metal—it felt warm. The penny had been flattened smoothly and precisely, with no irregularities. Ben flicked on his lighter so they could see it better. Lincoln's head was still barely visible on the front, as well as the Lincoln Memorial building on the back.

"It's almost as good as yours," Stephen said. Ben carried around a train-smashed penny which he called his "good luck penny."

"Mine's better," Ben said. "But this one's pretty good. Good enough to give a girl as a present."

Stephen would put it on a strap and give it to Kristine Elliot tomorrow, in history class. He really would.
Chapter 1.2

Just as it grew completely dark, the three boys made their way through the brush to the chain link fence that separated Stephen's back yard from the woods. Ben stopped and lit a cigarette, then they all climbed over the fence. Ben helped Tommy to make sure he didn't snag himself on the rusty prongs that ran across the top.

"Hey, look what I found!" Tommy said when he landed in Stephen's back yard. He held up a broken piece of a baseball bat, the narrow end. It was caked with mud.

"Wow," Ben said sarcastically. "Why don't you sit on it, Tommy?"

"Looks like he already did," Stephen said.

Ben laughed. He motioned to Stephen with his cigarette. "How you gonna make a hole in that penny? If you're gonna make a necklace, you got to make a hole in it."

"I've got a drill at home," Stephen said, though he wasn't even sure the thing worked.

"My old man's got a good one." Ben always referred to his father as his 'old man.' "We can go over to my house and make a hole in it right now."

"I don't know..." Stephen said, glancing at the back windows of his own little cracker box house. The kitchen and living room lights were on, which meant his mother had gotten home from work. But the truth was, he was only checking because he wanted an excuse—any excuse-not to go over to Ben's house. He had only been there once, but once was enough.

"My old man ain't home, don't worry," Ben said.

"I know. But my mother's probably got dinner ready."

"Come on," Ben said, pulling on Stephen's shirt sleeve. "You'll screw up that penny if you're not careful."

Stephen reluctantly followed, as did Tommy, who carried the muddy baseball bat handle with him. They cut through Stephen's yard, went across the street, and walked along the new chain link fence that encircled Capers' house. Mr. Capers was the McClean's next door neighbor, which the poor man was clearly not happy about, even though he had lived there ever since Ben could remember. At first, Stephen thought Mr. Capers had built the fence to keep the dog in, but soon realized its main purpose was to keep the McClean clan out. Especially Ben.

As they walked along beside Capers' fence, Tommy ran the handle of the baseball bat along the chain link, making a click-click-click-click sound. Stephen glanced over at Mr. Capers' porch. Blackie had been sleeping, but raised her head.

Ben stopped and rattled the fence with both hands. "Come get me, you old bag of bones. Come get me!" He often teased Black, hissing at her in a way that would have infuriated any animal.

The ancient beast rose, a little shakily, then bounded off the porch towards the three of them. Ben squatted and pressed his face up to the fence, sticking out his tongue and making wet, farting noises. Mr. Capers kept her on a long rope attached to the front porch, to keep her out of his precious vegetable garden around back.

When Blackie reached the end of the slack, the rope snapped her completely around, so she was facing the other direction.

"That's the stupidest dog I've ever seen," Ben said, laughing.

"She's not stupid," Stephen said defensively. "She thinks there's a million and one chance the rope might give way, and she's willing to take the risk to get a juicy piece of your obnoxious ass. And I don't blame her."

"Oh? You want a piece of my ass, Stephen?"

"Screw you."

"Yeah, that's what I meant."

Before Stephen could think of a clever comeback, Ben looked at his younger brother and said, "Hey, Tommy, don't do that!"

Tommy had stuck the bat through the chain link. Blackie immediately snapped her jaws down on it.

"You'll never get it away from her now," Ben said. He yanked the end of the stick from Tommy's hand. Blackie may have been old, but she had jaws of steel. And once they clamped down on something, they did not open again until that something was free of its owner, be it a finger, or even an arm or leg.

The front porch door swung open and Mr. Capers stepped out.

"Uh-oh," Stephen said.

"Don't you boys have anything better to do than torment my dog?"

"I'm not tormenting her," Ben said, twisting the mud-caked piece of wood back and forth, trying to free it from the Blackie's mouth. "I'm just trying to get my brother's stick back."

"What is it, a billy club?" Mr. Capers said sarcastically. "Or part of a home-made assault rifle?"

Stephen laughed, but Ben just glared at him.

"Blackie!" Mr. Capers shouted. "Blackie, let go of the stick!"

The dog paid him no attention. In fact, the old Lab seemed to growl even louder, backing up and trying to pull the bat out of Ben's hand.

"Blackie!" Mr. Capers shouted again, stepping down off the porch. He was still wearing his red and white striped Coca Cola coveralls. He drove a truck and had a terribly exciting job—filling up vending machines with soft drinks. "Come here, girl!"

"To hell with it," Ben said, and let go of the piece of wood.

Blackie gave a victorious twist of her neck, then trotted obediently to her master, the bat clamped in her jaws. Mr. Capers took the severed branch from her mouth, though not without some difficulty.

"Keep your crap out of my yard," he said, and flung the bat over the fence onto Ben's driveway. "Bunch of juvenile delinquents."

Ben and Stephen both laughed. Mr. Capers was always calling them "juvenile delinquents."

"You'll all end up in jail," Capers muttered.

"Blow me," Ben replied under his breath, then coughed a couple of times.

Mr. Capers froze, holding Blackie by the collar. "What'd you say?"

"Nothin," Ben said. "I've just got a cough." He held his hand over his mouth and pretended to cough again, but the words "blow me" were clearly audible.

Mr. Capers just shook his head. "That's a fine example you're setting for your little brother."

Ben ignored the comment and took Tommy's arm. "Let's go." The three of them started walking up Ben's driveway.

Mr. Capers sadly shook his head again and looked at Stephen. "What are you hanging around with trash like McClean for?"

Stephen shrugged. "Entertainment value?"

Mr. Capers did not laugh. "You seemed like a nice boy when you moved in, but Ben McClean is leading you astray." He paused thoughtfully. "Why don't you come to church with me on Wednesday night, son? We have a youth group there with a lot of nice kids I'm sure you'd like."

Stephen glanced at Ben. "Yeah, maybe." Mr. Capers was a member of a fundamentalist Christian church, which, Stephen had heard, promoted rituals such as snake handling and speaking in tongues.

"Youth group," Ben muttered, too low for Capers to here. "Probably teach the little kids how to handle the baby snakes."

A long, sharp whistle cut through the dusk air.

"Momma's callin'" Tommy said.

"I'm not deaf," Ben grumbled. He glanced over at Mr. Capers, looking a little embarrassed. Mrs. McClean rounded up Ben and Tommy by standing out on the back porch tearing off a ear-shattering whistle through her two front teeth, which had a slight gap between them. Ben had a similar gap between his front teeth, too, but it was smaller and somehow seemed to look all right on him, even attractive, somehow. He could whistle just like his mother. His father could do it, too, and Tommy was learning. It seemed to be a family trait, just like the space between the front teeth. Genetic, maybe, Stephen thought. Their natural whistles were so shrill and piercing they could be heard as far as a block away.

"Real classy family," Mr. Capers said disgustedly. "I should have done a police check of the neighbors before I bought this house. Bunch of juvenile delinquents." He dragged Blackie back up onto the porch and went inside.

Stephen grew more and more anxious as they approached Ben's house. He tried to think up some good excuse for not going inside.

When they reached the top of the driveway, a pickup truck pulled in. It was Ben's father. And the way the truck meandered as it rolled along the gravel told Stephen that Mr. McClean was in his usual condition. He gave a drunken-looking nod as he passed them, then pulled around to the back.

Ben and Stephen glanced at each other.

"Maybe it's not such a good idea to use my dad's drill right now," Ben said.

"Yeah. Anyway, I have one at home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Stephen walked back down the driveway towards home, greatly relieved he wouldn't have to come face to face with Ben's "old man."

* * *

Later that evening, Stephen rummaged around through a cardboard box in his bedroom closet that contained a bunch of odds and ends that his father had given him when he and his mother had moved away. There was an old leather briefcase, a dusty clock radio, an electric razor with no power cord, an old gym bag that smelled faintly of soiled socks, and a few assorted tools.

He pulled out the power drill and the little plastic box of drill bits. He wasn't sure why these particular items were included—his father had simply said, "This might come in handy" and had tossed them into the box, too. It was as if his dad thought the contents of the box would somehow make up for his absence.

The drill felt heavy and manly in Stephen's hands. He plugged it into the power outlet behind his bed and squeezed the trigger. It vibrated and made a whirring sound that was so unexpected Stephen almost dropped it on the floor. He waited a few seconds to see if his mother had heard it. It was after 11 o'clock, and he was supposed to be in bed. No. He could still hear the steady clicking of the keyboard from the living room. Although her "day job," as she called it, was being a nurse, her real love was fiction writing, and it seemed like she spent every spare hour sitting in front of their computer.

He glanced around his bedroom, wondering how he could hold the penny still while he drilled the hole in it. He needed a vise, like the one in his father's workshop at their old house. But there was no vise here, no workshop, no nothing. They didn't even have a garage in the crummy little house they rented now. His mother had to park her old car outside under a maple tree, and the paint was already beginning to mottle. But he couldn't blame her. She didn't make much money. She was doing the best she could.

Stephen decided to "improvise," as his dad often said. He picked up his algebra book (it may as well serve some useful purpose, he thought) and used it to hold the smashed penny firmly against the doorjamb of his tiny closet. The bit that was already in the drill looked about the right size, so he didn't bother changing it. He positioned the bit just above the ghostly outline of Lincoln's head, then pulled the trigger. The drill whirled round and round and tiny corkscrews of copper dropped away. After a few seconds, the bit broke through to the other side with a thump of finality.

"What are you doing in there?" Julia called out. Stephen only now realized that keyboard clicking had stopped a moment ago.

"Nothing, Mom."

"Go to bed. It's almost eleven thirty!"

"Okay." Stephen brushed away the copper filings and blew through the hole.

Not bad.

On the way home from school, he had bought a thin leather strap to use for the necklace. It was actually one of a set of two brown leather boot laces, but it would work fine for a necklace. It would give the piece of jewelry an earthy look.

He threaded the strap through the hole he had just drilled, then held the strap between his hands, the penny swinging back and forth on it. He had chosen the brown laces because he thought the color would look good against the copper of the penny. He decided that he had made the right choice.

Now, all he needed to do was tie a knot in the strap and the necklace would be finished. Still holding the penny in the air, he moved the two ends of the strap up and down, apart and together, trying to imagine it hanging around Kristine Elliot's neck, and how far down the penny should hang. As he moved the ends of the strap together, he watched the penny slowly descend, and he found himself imagining it sliding down between her breasts.

He swallowed.

Man, did Kristine have a beautiful body. Not only did she have a nice chest, but long, shapely legs, crystal-blue eyes, and shoulder-length chestnut hair that looked so silky and soft he could just barely stop himself from reaching out and touching it when she was sitting in front of him in history class. And her lovely smell!

But it was her face that most captivated him. She was beautiful. She had the face of an angel...

He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled through his nose, trying to imagine it, but then it was gone. He then found that he was not only unable to imagine the way she smelled, but he could no longer see her face, her body—nothing. It was as if she had been standing right there in front of him and had just vanished into thin air.

He stood there stupidly for a moment, wondering how to determine where to tie the knot, then decided to use himself as a model. Stephen closed his closet door and looked at himself in the cheap full length mirror that was attached to it. There was a crooked crack in the mirror about two-thirds of the way up, which tended to make you look like your body had been sliced in two, with the top half trying to slide off the bottom half. Squatting to avoid this annoying distortion, he tied and untied the knot several times, trying to decide whether or not she would want the penny up near her neck or down...lower. Finally, he decided against tying a knot in it at all. It would be better to let her do it herself. Maybe she would want to wear it so that the coin was completely hidden under her clothes.

As he gazed at himself in the mirror, Stephen wondered what Ray Hatcher would do if he saw Kristine wearing the necklace.

It was not something he wanted to think about.

Chapter 1.3

The next day, Stephen emerged onto his little front porch at the usual time, 7:20, and waited for Nick Bird to come by. Nick was half Apache Indian and half black, a friend of Ben's. He owned a big, rattling, convertible that he drove to school every day. It was in dire need of an engine overhaul and burned a tremendous amount of oil, belching blue smoke everywhere it went. But at least it ran.

As Stephen waited, he felt his usual uneasiness—he never knew if Nick would let him ride to school with Ben and his other friends or not. They were all in the 11th or 12th grades and spanned all colors of the rainbow. Ben was the only other white boy in the neighborhood. As Ben explained when Stephen had first moved in, there was no place for racial prejudice here—on this side of the railroad tracks, you had to stick together. The real enemy were the rich kids on the other side.

It was as if the railroad tracks that ran behind Stephen's house were a colossal, insurmountable wall that separated the "haves" from the "have nots." Ray Hatcher was one of the haves. He had a shiny new Porsche his parents had bought for him, a fancy cellphone, and lots of expensive clothes. It was a bit ironic for Stephen—he had been one of the haves before his parents had gotten divorced. Now they had to live only on his mother's salary, and nurses didn't make much money. So when they had moved here from Philly, they had not only changed cities, they had dropped down quite a few rungs on the socioeconomic ladder. Now they couldn't even afford a decent computer, and cellphones were out of the question.

At least Stephen usually didn't have to ride the bus to school. With the exception of Ben, the older boys didn't seem to like the fact that a lowly 9th grade "kid" was riding along with them in Nick's car. Still, because Stephen was Ben's friend, Nick and the others usually kept their mouths shut. And the fact that Stephen always pitched in his share of "gas money"—something that Nick always asked for but often did not receive—Nick didn't seem to mind.

Nick's convertible rolled down the street at 7:25, spewing smoke the telltale blue shade of burning motor oil as it came to a stop at the bottom of Ben's driveway. It was a light green color, a shade Ben called "goose shit green," which always infuriated Nick.

Nick tooted his horn, brushing his long, jet black hair back as he waited. As Stephen walked through his yard towards the street, Ben came trotting down the driveway in what Stephen thought of as Ben's "school outfit"—jeans, ratty sneakers that he loathed wearing, a T-shirt, and a light jacket, one that had belonged to his incarcerated older brother. The temperature had been in the 80's every day for a week, which made the ride to and from school fun, but the rest of the day miserable. For some reason, the teachers weren't supposed to turn on the air conditioners after the last day of September, and the classrooms were like ovens, especially in the afternoons.

"How's it goin'?" Ben said to Stephen, as he opened the car door. Nick gave Stephen a nod as they climbed inside. Stephen always sat in the back seat, directly behind Nick, and Ben in the front. Ben reached outside the door and slapped it a couple of times. "Get this boat sailin, Nick."

"It ain't no boat," Nick said. To prove it, he flattened the accelerator. They tore off down the street, the tires screeching and burning rubber. Stephen glanced behind them at the trail of smoke, thankful that his mother always left in the morning before he did.

"Here's your oil money," Ben said, slapping some change onto the dashboard.

"Very funny," Nick said. He glanced into his rearview mirror at Stephen and put an open palm behind his head. "Cough it up, kid."

Stephen handed him half of his lunch money.

They stopped at the bottom of the hill and two more boys jammed themselves into the back seat with Stephen. One was an odd Korean kid nicknamed "Torch," who was forever fascinated with cigarette lighters, butane, and anything flammable. He was as odd in appearance as he was in character. At first, Stephen thought his face was frozen in an expression of astonishment. Then, he realized that this was not so—Torch simply had no eyebrows. He had accidentally singed them off a few months before Stephen had moved in, and they were apparently very slow in growing back. His haircut only added to the overall look—it seemed to stick straight up, twisting a bit to the sides, like flames rising up from his head.

The other guy who always rode with them was Hispanic, called "Big Monk." Upon moving into the neighborhood, Stephen had discovered that a lot of the boys had animal nicknames: there was a black kid named "Donkey," who seemed to bounce up and down when he walked; a Philipino named "Squirrel," who had to overly-large front teeth; and of course the family of "Monks."

All the Monks looked more or less the same, except for their physical size—their ears were rounded and stuck out to the sides, and they all seemed to have sloping foreheads that gave them a Neanderthal appearance. In fact, they all looked so similar that it was sometimes hard to tell Big Monk from Middle Monk and Little Monk, especially at a distance. Though most of the boys didn't seem to mind their nicknames, Big Monk was an exception. His real name was Juan, and he expected to be called that, at least to his face. Everyone pretty much complied with this except Ben, who called him Big Monk no matter what. Stephen supposed this was because Big Monk knew better than to challenge Ben McClean about anything.

Even Ben had a nickname: "Nature Boy." Ben hated the "boy" part, but Stephen thought it fit Ben perfectly. Not only did he go shoeless and shirtless when the weather was warm, but he also stayed outdoors most of the time, even slept out under the stars in an old sleeping bag on many occasions. Though Ben truly liked being outside, Stephen had soon learned that the real reason he stayed out so much was simply to avoid being in the hellhole that served as his home.

Nick Bird didn't seem to have a nickname, for some reason. Maybe it was because he was already a "Bird." Or maybe because he had a car and everyone wanted to be on his good side. Nick was the most conservative kid around, as far as Stephen could tell. He had a job after school, at a hardware store, and already had big plans for college and a career of some sort. But he was a cheapskate. He had a cellphone, and if you wanted to use it, he made you pay him, in cash, before you even made the call.

This morning, Big Monk was sitting in the convertible's back seat, in the middle, his weight pressing against Stephen as they rounded the first curve towards school. He gave Stephen a dirty look. "Move over, punk."

Stephen tried to make more room, but he was jammed tightly against the left side of the car. Big Monk seemed to be in a bad mood, for some reason.

"Why's this kid riding with us, anyway?" he muttered. "We're not stopping at a kindergarten, are we?"

Before Stephen could think of a comeback, Nick slammed on his brakes. The car slid sideways to a stop. At first, Stephen thought a dog or a cat had run in front of them, but the street was empty.

Nick glared at Big Monk through the rearview mirror. "The kid's here because he pays, you cheap bastard. You haven't given me a cent for two weeks. Pay up or get out."

Frowning in a primate-like way, Big Monk dug one hand into his pocket and threw a few bills on the front seat. "There's your damn money."

Nick looked down at it, as if he were debating about whether or not to accept it in light of the less than appreciative way it was presented, but then snatched it up and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, behind his precious cellphone. He straightened the car out and slammed his foot onto the accelerator again, burning even more rubber this time, the huge vehicle fishtailing several times before it stabilized.

Ben glanced first at Nick, then at Big Monk, and finally at Stephen, a puzzled grin on his face. "What the hell's the matter with you bitches this morning? You all get your periods at the same time, or what?"

Torch, who had been silent up to this point, started giggling like a hyena. When this fit subsided, he began flicking the lighter in his hand over and over again, a long yellow flame shooting out each time.

Nick glanced over his shoulder at Torch. "Stop it."

Torch hesitated, then flicked his lighter again. "Why? There's nothing flammable in here."

Ben turned around. "My hair's flammable, you asshole. And if you singe a single strand of it, I'm gonna toss your butt out the back of this car."

Torch seemed to consider this threat seriously. He did not flick his lighter again, though he still kept it in his hand. It was his favorite—a heavy silver pipe lighter, the kind you have to fill from a butane canister, a process which Torch seemed to find endlessly satisfying.

As they rounded the next corner and headed towards Tomlinson Pike, the two-lane road on which the high school was situated, they spotted Karla Duncan walking to her bus stop. Karla had an incredible ass. Today, she was wearing a pair of tight-fitting slacks that didn't leave much to the imagination.

"Will you look at that bubble-butt," Nick said, slowing down for a better view.

"Hot damn!" Torch said, flicking his lighter several times as if to add some extra exclamation marks.

Nick slowed the car down almost to a stop as they passed her. She had her book bag hugged to her chest, as if for protection. She glanced at them and quickly looked straight ahead.

"Hey, Karla," Ben said, "wanna ride to school?"

She looked at Ben and the others distastefully, then said, as if to try and at least be polite, "There's not enough room."

"No problem," Ben said. He tilted his head straight back and peered up at the sky.

Karla glanced up to see what he was looking at, then glanced back at him, puzzled.

With his head still cocked back, he said, "You can sit right here on my face, Karla. Hop on!"

Everyone in the car cracked up.

Karla tried to spit on Ben, but Nick tore off and it landed somewhere behind them, the car burning more rubber, and more oil. Torch went into another hysterical fit of giggles, saying "You can sit on my face," over and over again.

"Shut up," Ben said. "It wasn't that funny."

They turned onto Tomlinson Pike and raced towards school. Stephen watched the speedometer climb past 70, then up to 80, as they passed a school bus loaded with kids. It was the same bus that Stephen would have been on had he not been able to ride with Nick.

Stephen settled back in his seat, enjoying the early morning sun, the wind blowing through his hair. It was a beautiful day, and a very special one. Kristine Elliot's birthday. Stephen felt the necklace through the pocket of his jeans and started imagining what she would say when he gave it to her.

Just as they were approaching the school, Nick glanced over his shoulder and yelled, "I told you to stop that shit!"

Torch was flicking his lighter again, absentmindedly, it seemed, holding it between his knees.

"It's not hurting anything," Torch said.

"Stop it, or your gonna walk to school."

Torch silently imitated Nick behind his back. Then, he fired up his lighter and directed the long flame at the back of Nick's seat.

Ben heard the sound and glanced into the back seat. "He's burning your car," he said to Nick matter-of-factly.

Nick glanced over his shoulder again. "God damn it!" He swerved around a corner, onto a side street and slammed on the brakes. The huge vehicle screeched to a halt, coming to rest at a 45 degree angle across the road. Nick jumped out onto the pavement, leaving his door open, and pointed at Torch.

"Get the hell out of my car."

Torch just sat there, the lighter in his hand.

"Get out of my car, you freak!"

Torch did not move.

Nick took a step around the side of the car, then stopped. Torch had a large, flabby frame and weighed well over 200 pounds. He was basically harmless, providing he wasn't armed with any flame-throwing devices any bigger than his cigarette lighter. But he was stubborn and difficult to mobilize.

Nick looked at Ben, as if for help.

Ben just shrugged. "It's your car."

"Ah, screw all of you," Torch said, standing up on the seat. He leaped over the fender and onto the street. "Who wants to ride in this rattletrap, anyway." He lumbered off towards school. Big Monk immediately moved over to the empty space Torch had left, finally looking satisfied with the amount of room he had.

There was a loud honk. They were blocking the street, and a car had stopped and started beeping its horn.

"Fuck off!" Nick yelled at the driver, climbing back behind the wheel. He put the car in drive, rambling and cursing. He looked at Ben. "It takes money to drive this goddam car. Money for gas, money for oil—"

"Lots of oil," Ben said.

Nick stopped momentarily and glared at him. "Money for oil, windshield wipers," he continued, "and new tires. The engine needs a valve job—"

"We noticed," Ben said. "So has most of this city."

Nick paused, then just shook his head, as if he had given up trying to talk any sense to any of them. He slammed the transmission into drive and slowly rolled on. The car that was waiting for them to move pulled around them. As it drove past, Stephen saw that it was John Prescott and his straight-laced girlfriend, Barbara Finley.

Ben groaned, and so did Nick.

John was driving a new Volvo, which his parents had bought him, no doubt. There was a decal of the football team mascot on the back window, a dumb-looking tiger. Stephen also noticed several textbooks stacked beneath the glass. In addition to being president of the senior class, John Prescott was naturally the kind of guy who took books home and studied, something that Stephen had learned wasn't acceptable for guys in his neighborhood. At least, not if you wanted to live. The first time Stephen took his books home from school, they ended up being passed around the bus and tossed out the windows, all at different bus stops. Now he kept them all in his locker at school, except for his algebra book, which he kept at home. Algebra was a course that wasn't possible to pass without doing homework—it counted 50% of the final grade. He usually did the boring problems as soon as he got home to get them over with, because he didn't like them hanging over his head and spoiling his whole day. When he finished, he always folded up the paper into a small rectangle and stuck it in his wallet, so Ben and the others wouldn't see it when he took it to school.

Nick pulled into a driveway to turn around, pausing for a moment to admire the sprawling three-story mansion behind it. All the houses in this neighborhood, where John's and Barbara's families lived, were ostentatious. Ben referred to the area as "Disneyland." This was as far from Ben and Stephen's neighborhood as you could get.

"I'm gonna have a spread like that someday," Nick said, "unlike you sorry assholes."

"Dream on," Ben muttered.

Stephen was glad that Kristine Elliot didn't live in Disneyland. He had looked her address up in the phone book and walked by her house one day. He had been relieved to see that it was just a normal, middle-class looking home. Kind of like the house where Stephen had lived in Philly before his parents had broken up. Nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing to brag about, either.

Nick backed out into the street and they headed towards school. They pulled up to the stop sign behind John and Barbara. Nick raced his engine a couple of times. John kept glancing at them in his rearview mirror, looking annoyed.

They sat there a long time—they were right across from the school. Cars and busses were jamming the intersection from both directions. Finally, John Prescott pulled out, and Nick did, too, staying right on John's bumper. They followed the fancy Volvo around the front of the school and into the parking lot on the east side. John kept glancing at them in his rearview mirror as both cars slowly rolled through the lot. This was Stephen's favorite part of the morning ride. He was sure that no other ninth grader rode to school in a convertible, at least not one that didn't belong to Mommy or Daddy. And riding with Ben McClean and the other older boys made him feel like a big shot.

John and Barbara pulled into a parking spot to the right. Nick rolled by very slowly, racing his engine a few more times. John got out and coughed, waving his hand in front of his nose at the bluish cloud of smoke that surrounded the convertible.

"Why don't you get that thing fixed?" he said, stepping around to his passenger door.

"Why don't you suck my tailpipe?" Ben said.

Stephen and the others laughed. John opened the door for Barbara.

"Ain't that sweet," Big Monk said, adding a lisp for effect.

"He's a real Prince Charming," Ben said.

They proceeded through the lot, looking for a good parking space—or at least one large enough to accommodate Nick's car—and checked out the girls.

They made all their usual lewd comments, though this was not something in which Stephen took part. It wasn't because he didn't want to join in—he actually enjoyed it, though he didn't really like the girls hearing it, especially when it seemed to upset them. He kept his mouth shut because he was so much younger and so much less sexually experienced than Ben and the others. In fact, he had no experience at all. This was not something that he would admit, though he was sure Ben knew it. The one and only time he had made an obscene remark ("I'd like to get into her pants"), Big Monk looked over and said, "What the hell do you know about getting into a girl's pants? Unless maybe she's wearing diapers." This had sent Torch into one of his laughing hyena fits. After that incident, Stephen decided that it was best to keep his own lewd comments to himself.

Just as they reached the end of one row of cars and started to turn around to the next, Stephen's heart leaped into his throat.

Kristine Elliot was getting out of a car, with two other girls.

Stephen recognized one of them, Renee Renfro. She was a friend of Kristine's and was also in Stephen's history class. The other one was older. Stephen didn't remember seeing her before.

Stephen slumped in his seat as Nick slowed the car down.

"Umm, umm, umm," Nick said, eyeing the third girl, the one Stephen didn't know. She had long, wavy blonde hair and seemed to have a nice figure, long legs, though it was hard to tell through the slacks and top she was wearing.

"I'd like a slice of that myself," Big Monk said.

Stephen wished he had taken the bus. Why did they have to run into Kristine Elliot today, of all days? He hoped and prayed that she wouldn't see him with these animals, and that Ben wouldn't say anything about Stephen planning to give her a necklace.

To Stephen's horror, Nick slowed the car down even more.

The older girl looked over at them as she slung her book bag across her shoulder. "Hi Ben," she said, giving him a little wave.

"Whoa, dude," Nick whispered, slapping Ben on the knee.

Kristine looked in their direction. Stephen thought his heart would stop beating. He sunk even lower in his seat, trying to hide behind Big Monk. But it didn't work. She had caught sight of Stephen.

She smiled at him.

Stephen nodded and said a weak-sounding "hi," feeling himself blush. For a brief moment, she seemed to take more interest in the convertible. She glanced curiously at Ben and the others, then turned and joined Renee and the other girl. The three of them walked towards the school building.

Big Monk looked over at Stephen, then at Ben, an expression of sheer astonishment on his ape-like face. He was apparently shocked that any girl beyond elementary school age would show an interest in Stephen.

Ben glanced at Stephen, a twinkle in his eye. Big Monk looked at them both, from one to the other, as if he were waiting for some explanation. Stephen was sure Ben would shoot his mouth off about the necklace.

Please don't say anything, Stephen thought, please don't say anything.

They continued past the girls and turned into the next row of the parking lot. Ben produced a cigarette and lit it. But he did not speak.

Nick finally found a parking space and pulled into it. Before he shut off the engine, he said to Ben, "I didn't know you were banging Alice Renfro."

Now Stephen knew who the third girl was—she was Renee's older sister.

"I'm not banging Alice Renfro."

"Well, she looks like she wants it."

Ben waved his cigarette off-handedly. "She helped me paint the sun mural in the main hall, she and some other people in my art class."

Ben had created several murals on the walls in different parts of the school. Art was the only subject in which he took any interest, not that he had actually learned anything about it in his classes. He had a talent for drawing and painting—he was born with it, apparently. The particular mural he was talking about was of a huge, smiling yellow sun that seemed to fill the entire hallway with light. It was kind of a meeting place everyone used at school ("meet you at the Sun after third period"). Stephen had been shocked when he had learned that Ben had sketched it there and supervised its painting. No one else in his neighborhood could have gotten away with being an artist—the other guys would have accused him of being a "fag"—but somehow Ben pulled it off, made it seem masculine, if not downright macho. Yet, he was also shy about his inborn talent and seemed a little uncomfortable if anyone started talking about it, as if it was a gift he did not deserve.

They all climbed out of the convertible and helped Nick put the top up. He was afraid it would rain, even though the sky was blue and cloudless.

When they headed for the building, Stephen lagged behind, wanting to make sure that he didn't run into Kristine again, at least not with Ben and the others around. But he did not see her again before the homeroom bell rang.

He went into the classroom and sat down, fingering the necklace in his pocket. He wouldn't see Kristine again until fifth period, in his history class, which was not until one o'clock.

It would be a long day.

* * *

Between 3rd and 4th periods, Stephen saw Ray Hatcher in the hallway. The football player was with two of his teammates, having some kind of argument about how the coach had handled the last game. None of the heavyset boys so much as glanced in Stephen's direction as they passed. When they stopped in front of a classroom door and continued talking, Stephen paused at a water fountain, took a drink, and watched them.

It was a mystery to Stephen what an intelligent girl like Kristine would see in a moose like Hatcher. He was stocky, about six feet tall, with a dark complexion, and had very short, straight black hair. He supposed Hatcher's physical size was attractive, in a animal-like way, but he looked so...well, dumb. Why did girls always find these mush-minded jocks so appealing?

It was hard to imagine Kristine talking to Hatcher the way she talked to Stephen. During history class, the two of them had discussed so many different subjects—the music they liked (he especially liked jazz and she did, too); their birth signs (Stephen was an Aquarius and she was a Virgo); whether or not astrology meant anything (Stephen was skeptical but Kristine firmly believed in it), how neither of them liked going to church, but how they both believed in some sort of God; how they both disliked snobby people; and a lot about how different Southerners were from Northerners. Though she couldn't seem to get enough of the latter, their favorite topic of discussion was their never-ending theories about their history teacher, "Mr. Dirkshire," or "Dorkshire," as they both called him.

Dirkshire was a rather effeminate man, with a nervous tick on the right side of his face. He also had an unconscious habit of pinching the crotch of his trousers and pulling down on it, as if to make more room for his genitals, something Kristine found "disgusting." Stephen and Kristine played a game where they each tried to outdo the other about what went on in Dirkshire's personal life. Stephen had come up with the best account (Kristine admitted this) two days before. He told Kristine that Dirkshire was actually a woman, had been changed surgically into a man, and he was pulling on his rather small implanted penis in hopes of lengthening it. Kristine had let out a burst of laughter so loud that Dirkshire had stopped his boring lecture on The Battle of Bunker Hill and asked if Kristine had "something intelligent to contribute?"

Stephen and Kristine often played this kind of mental game, where they tried to outdo each other. She had a very creative mind, which was one of the things he liked most about her. She had a way with words, too—Stephen was always impressed by her vocabulary. She seemed to be able to find just the right words to describe anything. Kind of like his mom. He supposed Kristine was a good writer.

Stephen took another drink from the water fountain and studied Ray Hatcher again. It was hard to imagine him and Kristine talking together if the conversation fell outside the narrow realm of football. Maybe Hatcher was fun to be around—he did seem to laugh a lot, though in Stephen's view, Hatcher's slow, mechanical-sounding chuckle only accentuated his stupidity. Or, maybe it was simply because Hatcher was a football player. Then again, it was hard for Stephen to accept this, since Hatcher was only a second string linebacker, hardly a "star."

As Stephen turned all this over in his mind, he realized something about Kristine that had never occurred to him. In all of Stephen's conversations with her, she had never said one word about Ray Hatcher. The only time she even uttered Hatcher's name was to Renee, who sat two rows over. Sometimes just before or after class, Renee would come to Kristine and ask her what she was doing after school, or after the game on Friday night. Kristine would almost always begin her answer with, "Ray and I are going to..."

When she began a sentence that way, Stephen never really listened to the rest—it made him feel jealous. He knew it didn't make any sense for him to feel that way, but it did. And the way Renee Renfro acted made him feel even worse. She would come over and interrupt their conversation as if Stephen didn't exist. And occasionally, she would give Kristine a look that seemed to say, "What are you talking to that little boy for?" Kristine never openly reacted to this. But then again, she did nothing to contradict it, either. It was as if she enjoyed her friendship with Stephen, but would not allow it to spill outside of the 50 short minutes that composed fifth period.

But Stephen still thought it was interesting, hoped it might even be significant, that she never mentioned Hatcher to him directly.

He took one last drink from the fountain, then walked past the three football players and went to his next class, feeling better about what he was planning to do.

* * *

By the time fifth period finally rolled around, however, Stephen was a bundle of nerves.

He arrived in the classroom before Kristine, as he usually did, and took the sixth seat back in the row closest to the door. Dirkshire was one of those pain-in-the-ass teachers who made everyone sit in alphabetical order. Kristine Elliot in the fifth seat back, and behind her, in the last seat, Stephen Erikson. But in this rare instance, Dirkshire's rigid seating policy had turned out to be a blessing.

Kristine finally arrived less than a minute before the bell, seeming out of breath. Before she could take her seat, Renee Renfro rushed over to her, a small, delicately-wrapped package in her hand.

"Happy Birthday!" Renee said, giving Kristine a small hug and handing her the gift. At that moment, the bell rang to start class.

Dirkshire immediately called the class to order, announcing a quiz on the following Friday. Kristine turned to Stephen, and he prepared to wish her a happy birthday, too. But instead of smiling and saying hello, as she usually did, she simply glanced at him and sat down.

Dirkshire plunged directly into his lecture, another boring monologue about the seemingly endless Battle of Bunker Hill. Kristine's behavior had taken Stephen completely by surprise. He wondered what in the world could have happened to make her give him the cold shoulder, but couldn't think of a reason. Then he wondered if she had somehow found out that he planned to give her a present, but the only person who knew was Ben. Stephen couldn't imagine Ben telling her about it, or telling anyone else, for that matter.

Over her shoulder, Stephen watched Kristine unwrap Renee's present. It was a pair of small gold earrings. Kristine held them up to one ear, smiling at Renee, and silently mouthed the words Thank you! Stephen knew that Kristine really didn't like Renee Renfro all that much. Rene's and Kristine's parents were old friends, and the two girls had known each other since they were toddlers.

Kristine slid the earrings into her book bag, then listened, or at least pretended to listen, to Mr. Dirkshire. It took the teacher a few minutes to become sufficiently absorbed in his lecture so that he didn't notice, or at least care, if people whispered quietly to each other. Usually, at that point, she turned a little bit sideways in her seat, crossed her legs, and started talking to Stephen.

But today, that pleasant event did not occur. She simply crossed her legs, settled back in her seat, and watched Mr. Dirkshire. Or she at least appeared to watch him—with her back to Stephen, he could not see her face. She had on some jeans and a pair of pink and white sneakers she often wore. She just sat there, swinging one of her feet back and forth.

After about 20 minutes, Stephen could stand it no longer. He had racked his brain, trying to think of some explanation for her ignoring him, but kept coming up blank. Working up his courage, he leaned forward, his heart pounding, and whispered, "Happy Birthday" behind her left ear.

Kristine glanced at him over her shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered back, and then looked at Mr. Dirkshire again.

Stephen's heart sank. Something was definitely wrong, but he still couldn't imagine what it was.

He sat back in his seat, trying to decide what to do. He kept looking up at the clock behind Dirkshire, watching the minutes pass. Finally, when there was only eight minutes left before the bell, he decided he had to make a move.

He leaned forward again. "Kristine, is something wrong?" he whispered. His mouth had become so dry his whisper sounded raspy.

She glanced at him over his shoulder. "No. Not really."

Stephen considered the answer, his brain seeming to work very sluggishly due to the stress.

"What do you mean, 'not really'?" What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

She remained very still for a moment, then sighed and turned sideways in her seat, but not as much as she usually did. Covering her mouth so that Dirkshire couldn't hear, she said, "I saw you this morning with those guys."

"What 'guys'?"

"You know, those guys in the convertible."

Stephen was quiet for a moment, trying to understand exactly what, or who, she might be talking about. He was in Nick Bird's car, but Nick was fairly respectable, at least compared to the other kids in Stephen's neighborhood. Big Monk was with them, too, but all of the Monks were just sort of...there. He couldn't imagine Kristine objecting to him, unless it was based on sheer ugliness, and with a boyfriend like Ray Hatcher, Stephen didn't see how she could be very snobbish about looks. Of course, Torch had a bad reputation, but he had already been kicked out of the car when Kristine saw them.

Then another shot struck him, something he hadn't even considered.

He leaned forward again. "You mean Ben McClean?"

He could tell by the look on her face that he had hit pay dirt.

"What's wrong with him?" Stephen whispered defensively. He had slightly raised the level of his voice, and two of the people in the next row glanced in their direction.

Kristine waited until they looked away before responding. "Well, he doesn't have a very good reputation."

"What's wrong with his reputation?"

She shrugged, then said, "His older brother killed a policeman, you know."

"That was Ben's brother, not Ben." Stephen found himself becoming angry.

"And his mother...I heard she's a....well, I better not say what I heard."

Stephen sat back in his seat, away from her, a wild, racing feeling in his chest. She turned a little more towards Mr. Dirkshire. Looking at her from behind, Stephen suddenly wondered if he really liked Kristine Elliot so much after all.

He leaned forward again, his lips just behind her left ear. "I thought you hated snobs."

This caught her attention. She turned about halfway towards him and said, very firmly, "I do."

"Well, aren't you being one right now? What do you actually know about Ben McClean himself, except for a bunch of rumors and gossip?"

She turned away so abruptly that it almost made Stephen start. She appeared to watch Dirkshire, but Stephen could see that she was breathing hard. She was angry.

Stephen sat back in his seat. He quietly pushed his desk back a few inches to put as much distance between them as possible. He looked at the clock. Six minutes left. He couldn't wait for the class to be over. What a total snob! He had completely misjudged her.

He looked down at his pants pocket, at the spot where the necklace was tucked away. She didn't deserve such a gift. He would wait and give it to someone who did.

After five painfully long minutes, Kristine turned around. "I'm not a snob," she said. Her eyes looked moist. "You're right—I don't know Ben McClean, that's all. I've heard a lot of bad things about him. Maybe it's all wrong."

Stephen felt a rush of relief. "Well, it is wrong. You shouldn't believe everything you hear. Ben's a good guy, Kristine."

She looked like she wanted to believe him. "Really?"

"Yeah. When I moved into my neighborhood, he was the only person who spoke to me. He actually came over to my house and welcomed me, took me around and introduced me to all the other guys."

Kristine looked impressed. "Well, that was nice."

"You know I've lived in a lot of different places. Nobody ever did that before."

It was all completely true, but Stephen could still see a trace of skepticism in Kristine's soft blue eyes.

"But he gets in trouble a lot," she said. "Fights and stuff."

"Yeah. But I've never heard of him doing anything but defend himself against things people have said about his brother. And his family. He doesn't start fights with people."

Kristine was thoughtful for a moment. "Well, he is talented. That sun mural in the main hall is amazing."

"Yeah. He's a great person, Kristine. You would think so, too, if you knew him, believe me." Stephen started to say that Ben was his best friend, but decided that might be pushing things.

Relieved that the ice was broken, Stephen changed the subject and asked what she got for her birthday. She told him her parents had given her an expensive pair of ice skates that she had been wanting, and a few other things. Stephen had trouble concentrating on what she was saying. He was lost in her pretty eyes, feeling almost ecstatic that things were back to normal again.

Stephen looked up at the clock, and his heart gave a hard thump. There was only one minute left to give her the necklace! The bell was going to ring any second.

Kristine was still talking about the skates, that she was planning to go to Crystal Falls this weekend and that she hoped she could use them at a new indoor rink. Stephen quickly slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the gift, though he cupped it in his palm so she couldn't see it.

He took a deep breath. Kristine seemed to notice that he was about to do something out of the ordinary.

"Kristine, I wanted to giv—"

The bell rang.

When it stopped, Kristine was still looking at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Then, out of nowhere, Renee Renfro swooped down on them.

"I'm so glad you liked the earrings," Renee gushed. "I wasn't sure you would."

"They're beautiful, Renee. Thanks."

Kristine glanced at Stephen, then got up and picked up her book bag. Renee started chattering about what she planned to do over the weekend.

Stephen felt like the entire school building had collapsed on top of him. His thoughts ran around in circles as he watched the two girls talk. Why did that damn Renee Renfro have to come over and spoil everything? And the bell, if it had rung just two seconds later, he would have had time to—

But Renee and Kristine were starting to leave.

Stephen felt panicky. If he didn't give the present to her now, he never would. But the last thing he wanted to do was give it to her in front of Renee.

Just do it! a voice inside him said.

He suddenly stood up, nearly knocking his desk over as he did so. "Kristine, I...do you have a sec?"

The two girls stopped and turned around.

Trying to pretend Renee wasn't there, Stephen focused on Kristine. "I wanted to give this to you, you know, I mean, for your birthday."

He held out his hand, which was trembling slightly, and opened it.

She looked down at the necklace, which appeared to be nothing but a wad of leather straps. Realizing this, Stephen picked it up with his other hand and quickly uncoiled it, being careful not to let the penny slip off and fall on the floor.

"It's a necklace," he said, handing it to her.

She held it up in the air, peering at the penny dangling down from the straps.

"It's very...nice," she said, glancing at Renee.

"It's a penny," Stephen explained.

Kristine examined the slab of copper more closely. "A penny?" She sounded puzzled.

"Yeah. It's been run over by a train."

Renee burst out laughing.

Stephen wished he could disappear. His face felt like Torch had just poured lighter fluid all over it and set it ablaze. What a stupid thing to give a girl for her birthday! Now it suddenly seemed ridiculous, childish. A penny that had been run over by a damn freight train, for god's sake!

He moved closer to her and pointed to the penny, speaking quickly, trying to save himself. "You can still see Lincoln's head a little bit, right there." He helped her turn it over. "And you can still see the monument on the back." Struggling for something to say that would give it added value, he said, "It's supposed to bring good luck."

Kristine smiled, and looked at Renee. "Well, it's different."

"I put it on the tracks myself," Stephen said.

"Really?" Kristine dangled the penny from the leather strap again. She seemed to see it in a new light. "You made it for me?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think it's nice."

Renee was looking at Kristine like she was crazy.

"I'm going to put it on right now." She set down her book bag and drew the necklace around her neck. She turned her back to Stephen and said, "Will you tie it for me?" She pulled her hair up, exposing her neck and shoulders.

Stephen fumbled with the leather straps, his hands shaking even more than they were before, his knuckles tingling as they brushed against her neck. He finally managed to tie a knot. The sweet smell of her perfume was making him dizzy. He had never been so close to her before.

"You need to cut off the extra pieces," he said, as she turned around and faced him again.

She looked more closely at the coin, which was hanging just above her breasts, and touched it. "That was so sweet of you." She shot Renee a glance that said, If you say anything, I'll kill you, but Stephen was so euphoric he hardly noticed. "Thank you, Stephen."

Then, somewhat awkwardly, she stepped closer to Stephen and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. She grabbed her book bag and walked out of the room with Renee, leaving Stephen standing alone, in a state of semi-shock.

After a moment, a voice said, "Don't you have another class to go to?"

It was Mr. Dirkshire. He was standing at the door, preparing to lock it.

Stephen realized that, except for Dirkshire, the room was empty, and that he was just standing there with a silly grin on his face, one hand touching the spot on his cheek that Kristine Elliot's lips had graced.

Chapter 1.4

Stephen had to take the bus home from school. He had to suffer this humiliation every day, because Nick Bird left after fifth period to go work at the hardware store. But on this particular day he was flying so high he hardly knew he was riding the bus.

When Stephen got home, he sat down and tried to do his algebra homework, but couldn't concentrate. It was also another beautiful day of Indian Summer, so he decided to change clothes and go outside—it wouldn't kill him to let algebra hang over his head until dark. But the truth was, he was so proud of himself and what had happened with Kristine, he wanted to tell Ben about it.

Stephen went outside to look for him. Ben always got home from school an hour or so before he did. Like Nick, Ben had no class 6th period, and the lucky bastard always got a ride home with Nick.

Stephen found Ben sitting in the Houston's yard. The Houstons lived on the other side of Mr. Capers' house. And like Mr. Capers, they never seemed to be home. Unlike Mr. Capers, however, they had no fence around their house. There were two big, beautiful maple trees on their small property, and the leaves on both of them had turned a brilliant orange. Ben was sitting with his back against the tree closest to the street, only a few feet from the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was shirtless and barefoot as usual.

"How's it goin, you damn juvenile delinquent," Ben said.

Stephen laughed. "Not bad."

Ben had a sketch pad propped against his knees. He was making a drawing with colored pencils, something that Stephen had rarely witnessed himself.

Stephen said, "I'm pretty damn good, actually." He stepped behind Ben to see what Ben was sketching. The picture was of a house directly across the street, where an elderly couple with the last name of Farris lived. There was a sprawling tree in their front yard, too, though it was an oak, not a maple. It had lost nearly all of its leaves. The tree seemed to be the main focus of Ben's drawing.

"I was in the mood to draw today," Ben said, as if he needed to offer an explanation.

"That's amazing," Stephen said, admiring Ben's work. He didn't know much about art, but Ben's drawings and paintings were truly alive. They showed Ben's inner emotions, Stephen thought. He couldn't explain it, but all Ben's drawings and paintings, no matter what the subject matter, always looked like Ben, in some strange way. How could a tree look like Ben? But they did, when he drew them.

In fact Ben's style was so vivid and distinct that Stephen was sure he could pick out Ben's paintings among hundreds of others at an exhibition.

He watched Ben's quick, confident strokes for a couple of minutes, in awe. "I don't understand how you do that."

"Me either," Ben said, sketching in a few of the tree's upper branches. "I just draw what I see. What I notice." He flicked his cigarette into the culvert and finally looked up at Stephen. "So, did you give it to her?"

"Did I give what to her?" Stephen said, unable stop a smile from crossing his lips.

"Your ten inches of man-meat, you stud. What do you think?"

"Yeah, I gave her the necklace," Stephen said, sitting down beside Ben.

"Want a smoke?" Ben said, offering one to Stephen.

Stephen hesitated, then decided to take a cigarette. Normally, he didn't like to smoke, but on special occasions he allowed himself to light up. What had happened with Kristine today made this one of them. Anyway, his mom wouldn't be home from work for a while. "Thanks."

Ben lit the cigarette for him. Stephen took a long drag, then coughed a few times.

"Too strong for you, kid?"

"No. I'm just not used to it, that's all."

Ben smiled, then looked at his cigarette. "You're probably right not to smoke. It's not healthy."

This surprised Stephen. He thought such a statement was ironic from a guy who routinely rolled underneath moving freight trains for kicks.

"So, what happened with Kristine?" Ben said. "Did she like the necklace, or what?"

"Well, she didn't say much, really." Stephen was aware that he was blushing, and grinning, too, remembering the moment. "She kissed me."

"She what?" Ben said, stopping his sketching.

Stephen didn't answer.

"You're kidding me, Stephen..."

"No." Stephen started to say that he could still smell her perfume, but decided that it might be the kind of thing a "pussy" would say.

Ben looked at him with what seemed to be a mixture of astonishment and admiration. But then he shook his head, as if he thought Stephen had made a mistake. "Ray Hatcher would shit a gold brick if he found out."

"He's not going to find out," Stephen said quickly, but he didn't really believe this. He had been so delirious he had nearly forgotten about Kristine wearing the necklace out of the classroom. He wondered if she was still wearing it—or would still be wearing it—when she saw Ray Hatcher again.

"What's wrong?" Ben said. "Did somebody see her kiss you?"

"No. Only Renee Renfro."

"Who's she?"

"Alice Renfro's sister. We saw her in the parking lot this morning, remember?"

Ben paused and took a drag on his cigarette. "Yeah, I remember. I didn't know Alice had a little sister. She's better looking than Alice."

"Maybe. But she's kind of a bitch."

Ben laughed. "So is Alice." He paused, took another drag off his cigarette and blew a few smoke rings. "Alice has the hots for me. Did you see her wave this morning?"

"Yeah." Stephen wondered if she really liked Ben, or if Ben was just saying that because he felt like he had to match Stephen's successful girl-wooing day. He was probably right, Stephen decided. Half the girls in the school seemed to have a crush on Ben McClean, despite his bad reputation. Even Stephen's mother liked Ben. He wasn't particularly handsome, but there was something about the way he acted that attracted females, like moths to a candle flame. Ben didn't seem to take advantage of this fact, though. He almost had a "take it or leave it" attitude towards girls.

They both just sat there for a few minutes, enjoying their cigarettes. The afternoon sun felt good on Stephen's face.

Ben picked up his sketch pad again and went back to work.

"What should I do next, Ben?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, to get Kristine."

Ben paused. "Don't go chasing after her."

"I'm not chasing after her. What do you mean?"

"Giving her the present was enough. Too much, if you ask me."

Stephen frowned. "I don't understand."

"You gotta let them come to you, Stephen. You don't go to them."

Stephen considered this, but it didn't make any sense. "Girls don't come to guys—guys have to do the chasing."

"Not so," Ben said, cocking his head, looking at the tree he was drawing, comparing it to his sketch. "Do you see me chasing any girls?"

"No," Stephen admitted.

"But I get lots of pussy," he said, smiling up at Stephen. Ben said he'd had sex with "something like" 20 different girls. Hearing this from any boy besides Ben McClean, he wouldn't have believed it. But with Ben, Stephen had no doubts. Just last week, he had seen Ben emerging from the back yard of a house down the block where a bored 28 year old housewife "needed company," according to Ben.

"Good looking girls—which are the only ones you want—have guys chasing them all the time," Ben said. "They're only interested in guys they think they might not be able to get."

Stephen thought this over. "You mean they like a challenge."

"Yeah, that's it."

Stephen had to admit, that did make some sense. "But I'm no challenge for anybody. I'm not a bad-ass, like you."

"That's not the reason I get them. I just act like I don't care."

"But you don't really care. Do you?"

Ben shrugged, still sketching. "Not really. But that's cause I know there's more on the way." He grinned.

Stephen shook his head. Ben's attitude was paradoxical, he knew. He wanted to point this out, but Ben probably didn't even know the word.

Stephen wanted to change the subject. "Where's Tommy?"

Ben looked away from his drawing and glanced up and down the street. "Good question. The little fart should have been home from school by now." He motioned to Stephen with his pencil. "What time is it?"

"Almost three." Ben never wore a watch. He had once asked Ben why, and Ben had told him that like shoes, watches were not "natural." Ben detested electronic gadgets. He had never even used a cellphone.

Ben said, "I'm going to kick Tommy's scrawny little butt when I find him."

Stephen looked down the street. Now he saw two boys walking towards them.

"Here come Torch and Middle Monk," Stephen said.

Ben squinted at them, the sun in his eyes. "It's not Middle Monk, it's Big Monk."

"No, it's Middle Monk."

"You're wrong, Stephen. I can tell by the way his knuckles drag the ground."

Stephen laughed. "That's not nice, Ben."

They watched the two approaching boys another moment.

Ben had been right—it was Big Monk. The Monks' primitive nature did not seem to stop with their physical appearance—none of them seemed to have any personality whatsoever. Torch seemed to like the Monks, though, and the Monks liked Torch, for some reason. When Stephen had asked Ben about this, the only explanation he got was, "I guess if you live in a cave, you need a Torch."

But what was even more of a mystery to Stephen was why Nick Bird liked both Torch and Big Monk. He was sure Torch would be riding to school with Nick in a few days. Nick's anger over gas money always seemed to blow over.

"Either of you seen my little brother?" Ben called to the two approaching boys.

"No," Torch called back. He held up a complicated-looking device that Stephen thought resembled a paint sprayer. "Want me to fry him for you if I see him?"

Ben glanced at Stephen. In a low voice, he said, "That bastard's crazy as hell. He's the only one in this neighborhood that scares me."

The two boys sauntered over to the culvert where Stephen and Ben were sitting.

Torch pointed the device in his hand down at the dry grass and pulled the trigger. A roaring blue flame at least a foot long shot out of it. Almost instantaneously, a circle of grass the diameter of a softball burst into flames. The breeze caught the fire and it crept towards the Houston's house.

Ben leaped up and pounded out the flames with his bare feet. "What the hell are you doing, tryin to burn down the whole goddam neighborhood?" Ben went on. "Don't you know a grass fire will spread like—" Ben snapped his fingers "—that."

"I know," Torch said, giggling inanely. He motioned to Ben with the flame thrower. "What are you, Nature Boy? A goddam tree hugger?"

Ben took a quick step towards Torch. The boy backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Stephen thought Torch was crazy, talking to Ben like that. Ben probably would have beat the hell out of him already, but he seemed to cut Torch more slack than others because he thought Torch off his rocker.

"Listen, fireballs," Ben said, "I'm gettin sick and tired of you. Take your damn flame-thrower or whatever it is and get the hell out of..." Ben voice trailed off as he looked over towards Mr. Capers' house. Tommy was walking slowly through the grass towards the group, dragging his feet.

Torch stepped over to the fence and aimed his home-made device at Blackie, letting out another burst of flame into the air. She was 20 yards away, sitting on Capers' front porch, as usual. She barked once and tiredly got to her feet.

"Leave the dog alone," Ben said, turning to him.

"You mess with her all the time," Torch said.

"I don't care, leave her alone." Blackie barked again, still on the porch. "Sit, Blackie!"

Oddly, the dog settled back down on the porch, perhaps sensing it was better to keep her distance from the weird human being with the thing that shot flames.

Tommy walked slowly up to the group of boys, a guilty look on his face.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ben said.

"I saw the train dect-ive," Tommy said.

Ben grabbed him by one arm. "No you didn't."

"I did, too."

"You're just trying to save your cowardly butt."

"He was down there," Tommy said, squirming in his big brother's grip. The boy managed to point his free arm in the direction of the trestle that was at the end of their street.

"What did he look like, then?"

"He...well, I don't know."

Ben twisted Tommy's arm behind his back. "You're a liar."

"No-o-o, I did see him. I really did."

"I saw him, too," Big Monk said.

Ben looked sharply over at Big Monk. "You did? Where?"

"Where your brother said. His car was parked at the end of the street. He was walking up on the trestle."

Ben let go of Tommy. He spoke in a hushed voice. "When?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

Torch said, "What's the matter, Nature Boy? Scared?"

Ben took a step towards Torch, then froze.

They all saw the car at the same time. It was a nondescript light blue sedan, creeping toward them from the direction of the trestle.

"That's him," Big Monk said.

Stephen jumped to his feet.

"Don't run," Ben said quickly. "You'll look guilty. Just relax and act natural, like you don't know who he is."

Ben sat back down and calmly picked up his sketch pad. The other boys just stood there, hands in their pockets, staring down at the grass. Stephen had to use all his self-control to resist breaking into a run. He glanced over at his house. Why hadn't he just stayed home and done his algebra homework like he usually did?

The car approached very slowly, the driver peering at them through the heavily tinted windows. He had on sunglasses. A small antenna protruded from the center of the car's trunk. There were also small searchlights mounted next to both side mirrors.

It was the train detective, all right. Or some other law enforcement officer.

Stephen's heart was thumping hard. Just do what Ben said, he told himself. You don't have anything to worry about—nobody's ever written your name down before.

The man parked beside them and got out, slipping off his sunglasses. "How you boys doin?"

No one responded.

Ben glanced up at the man but continued his sketching. Tommy slipped over to the far side of his big brother, as if for protection.

The man walked over to them, eyeing each boy, one by one. He was short and thick. A pot belly hung over his belt like a sack of beans. He wore a pair of black slacks and a red-and-white striped tie, but no jacket. On his belt was a walkie-talkie.

His left hand held a thick black notebook.

"You boys haven't been messin round on the railroad tracks, have you?"

"No, sir," Torch said, almost before the question was finished. Torch glanced smugly at Ben.

The detective looked Torch over. He studied the boy's odd-looking face for a few seconds, as if he knew something was amiss but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then he looked down at the flame-throwing gadget in Torch's hand.

"What's that?"

"Nothin," Torch said. "A paint-sprayer."

The detective looked skeptical. His gaze passed over each boy again, until it settled on Ben.

"Are you sure none of you boys has been messin' round on the tracks?"

"No, sir," Torch repeated.

"I never go down there," Big Monk said, with sickly-sweet innocence. It was the truth, but it made Stephen feel like hitting him.

The detective was still looking at Ben, who had not looked up since the man had gotten out of the car.

"I'm waiting for you to answer me, son."

Ben continued sketching, as if completely absorbed in his work.

The detective opened the notebook. "I've got a report from one of our rail engineers, says there were two boys on the tracks about a quarter mile west of the trestle yesterday, which is about—" He gestured in the direction of Stephen's house "—right over there. Says here he nearly hit one of the boys, who's described as wearing jeans, no shirt, and barefoot." He closed his notebook and looked at Ben. "Sounds a lot like you, don't it?"

Ben glanced up at him, shrugged, and continued drawing.

The detective said, "I don't seen nobody else round here goin without a shoes and shirt."

Ben said, "I don't have to wear shoes or a shirt if I don't want to. It's a free country."

"It's a free country, but we have laws against loiterin' on the tracks, and vandalisin' freight trains."

"I didn't vandalize any train," Ben said.

"You was loiterin' around the tracks. Don't deny it."

Ben went back to his drawing, ignoring him.

The detective watched Ben for a moment, then looked over at Stephen. "What about you, son?"

Stephen tried to look innocent.

The man opened his notebook again. "Says here, the other boy was younger, wearin' jeans and a yellow shirt."

Stephen glanced down at his shirt. It fit the description exactly.

"I didn't have on this shirt yesterday," Stephen lied. Why did he have to wear the same shirt two days in a row? He had thrown it on almost without thinking when he came home. He had worn his favorite shirt to school, a blue one, wanting to look his best for Kristine. He had taken it off so it wouldn't get dirty.

"Is that so?" the man said slowly. He looked back at Ben.

"Can we go now?" Torch said.

The detective glanced at him, then at Big Monk, but did not answer. He eyed Ben again. "You know, you look awfully familiar to me." He flipped his notebook to another section and studied several pages of it, glancing over at the mailboxes that lined the street. Stephen knew he was taking note of the addresses.

Ben started to look tense.

"You wouldn't happen to be a Benjamin R. McClean, would you?"

"My name is Eugene Lampley," Ben said.

Torch giggled.

The man glanced at Torch, then looked back at Ben. "Eugene Lampley," he repeated.

"That's right."

"Well, Eugene," the man said sarcastically, "why don't you show me some ID to prove it?"

"Why don't you bite my ass."

The detective blinked once. He took an aggressive step towards Ben. "What did you say?"

Ben did not answer. He continued to sketch.

The man stood over Ben for a moment, his facial expression hard. He looked as if he was fighting to control his temper. He cocked his head to the side and gazed at the sketch Ben was working on.

"Well, we're quite the artist, aren't we?"

Ben did not react to this, though he looked like he was having more and more difficulty concentrating on the drawing.

"I have to say, that's pretty darn good. You look like you got some talent, son." The man paused and glanced at the other boys, then said, "That'll come in handy down at the Juvenile Detention Center, where you'll be livin for the next six months. Normally, boys down there don't have nothin to do, except try to keep themselves away from the older, stronger fellas who take a likin to em... if you see what I'm getting at. But you won't have to worry about that sort of thing. You'll be able to keep busy, re-finin you artistic abilities."

"You don't scare me," Ben said, though not very convincingly.

"I don't, huh?" He paused, glanced at Stephen and the other boys, then said, "Well, that's exactly what I'm tryin' to do." He flipped his notebook to the front, shaking his head. "Did it ever occur to you boys that I'm not your enemy? That I'm tryin to help you? Keep you smart-asses alive?"

Out of the notebook, he pulled out a large, colorful photograph. "Do you all have any idea what a locomotive can do to a human being?"

He held up one of the photos so Stephen, Torch, and Big Monk could see it. Stephen immediately looked away, barely glimpsing the grisly image. All he saw were some severed limbs and lots of bright red blood, but that was enough.

"Yeccch," Torch said.

Big Monk's eyes lingered on the photo for a few seconds before he looked away. "It's Eddie Bumpus."

The detective turned the photo towards Tommy. "Is this what you want to happen to you, son?"

Ben leaped to his feet, knocking the photo out of the detective's hand. "Don't show him that!"

The picture landed on the ground, face up. "Don't look at it, Tommy," Ben said, flipping it over with his toes.

Tommy looked down at the back of the photo. He had evidently seen enough, too—his face was chalky.

Ben and the detective stood almost nose-to-nose, Ben breathing hard.

"Pick up that picture," the detective said.

"Pick it up yourself."

Neither of them moved.

This stalemate continued for about 30 seconds. The detective finally sighed and slipped the walkie-talkie out of its holster. "I think we've fooled around long enough." He held the device to his ear and clicked a button. "Nelson to base, Nelson to base, come in."

Stephen had the urge to run again, even stronger than the first time. Ben looked at him, at Torch and Big Monk, then back at the detective.

"Nelson to base, Nelson to base. Come in please."

What happened next occurred so fast Stephen almost did not believe his eyes.

Ben snatched the walkie-talkie from the detective's hand and hurled it far up into the Houstons' yard.

There was one long second when everyone just looked at each other.

Then, total chaos.

Torch took off down the street in one direction, Big Monk in the other. Tommy ran across the street, towards the tracks. Ben sprinted towards Mr. Capers' house.

Stephen just stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do.

The detective spun around in a circle, yelling "Stop! Stop!"

When he turned and saw that Stephen was still standing there, he pointed at Stephen's nose and said, "You stay put!"

"Hey, Nelson!" Ben yelled.

The detective turned around.

Ben had stopped running about halfway to Mr. Capers' yard.

"You'll never catch me, you lard-ass son-of-a-bitch!" Ben showed the detective his middle finger and turned around and started running again.

This caused Nelson to go berserk.

He took off after Ben, cursing, his pot belly flopping around like a landed fish. Ben sprinted in a straight line towards the back side of Mr. Capers' fence. Stephen had broken into a run, but when he saw where Ben was heading, he slowed down to a trot, then stopped. He didn't understand why Ben would run in that direction...

But then he saw Blackie watching Ben from the porch....all became clear.

When Ben reached the fence, he sailed over it cleanly, barely breaking his stride. He sprinted down its left-hand side, now inside Mr. Capers' backyard. The detective raced after him on the other side of the fence, looking very determined.

Stephen watched as Blackie climbed to her feet. The aging Lab simply stared at Ben for a few seconds, tilting her head to one side, as she could not believe what she was seeing. The object of her loathing was not running outside the fence, but inside.

When this fact finally registered, the old dog sprang into motion. She gave an impassioned yelp, which somehow reminded Stephen of a bugle, and dove off the porch steps with more gusto than Stephen had ever seen her display before.

The detective did not even seem to notice the animal. Like Blackie, he was blinded with rage at Ben.

When he reached the fence, he slammed the toe of one of his shiny black shoes into the chain-link and tried to climb up. His foot slipped out a couple of times. He finally managed to heave himself over, but not without catching the leg of his trousers on the sharp, open ends that lined the top edge of the chain link.

Stephen heard the sound of ripping fabric. The detective cursed again, but did not lose his pace.

By then, Ben had almost reached the far end of Mr. Capers' backyard. Blackie was still as oblivious to the detective as he was to her, bounding towards Ben at full speed. As Ben ran, he kept glancing over his shoulder at Blackie, his eyes wide, but laughing at the same time.

When he reached the back fence, he did not leap over as he had done the first time-he was too preoccupied with avoiding Blackie's sharp teeth. Just as he put one of his bare feet into the chain link, the incensed dog caught up with him. He quickly hoisted himself up and partially over the fence, hanging in the chain link with only his toes.

"Get him!" Ben shouted, pointing at the detective.

Blackie was in a total frenzy and paid no attention, snapping and snarling at Ben's bare feet. Ben kicked at her, trying to avoid her snapping jaws.

"Get him, Blackie!" Ben yelled, pointing again.

Now, the detective was only a few yards away from Ben. It was only at this moment when he seemed to take any notice of the dog. He slowed down, then came to a full stop, his flabby face suddenly pale.

Blackie caught the motion out of one eye and looked in his direction.

There was a long moment where the dog and the detective just stared at each other, a moment that Stephen thought seemed quite a bit longer to the detective than it did to anyone else.

Ben took the opportunity to jump to safety on the other side of the fence.

Blackie looked back at Ben and barked, throwing herself against the chain link as if to prove to herself that Ben was no longer accessible.

She then turned to the detective.

"Get him, Blackie," Ben whispered from the other side of the fence.

The poor man spun around and started running back in the other direction, his mouth agape, gasping for breath. Blackie took off after him. He stopped once along the fence and futilely tried to shove one of his feet into the chain link, but it slipped out as it had earlier. He started running again, but not quite with the same vigor as before. He seemed to realize, on some level, that this was not a contest he would win.

"Run, you idiot!" Ben yelled.

Stephen thought Ben was yelling at the detective, but soon realized Ben was yelling at him.

"Rr-un!" Ben screamed again, laughter breaking up his voice.

Stephen turned and ran towards the safety of his own house. He slowed down when he reached the hedge that separated his yard from the street. Unable to resist seeing what would happen, he ducked behind the hedge and watched.

The detective had reached the front corner of Mr. Capers' fence, about the same spot where he had climbed over. Blackie was right on his heels. The heavyset man didn't even try to stop when he reached the fence—his whole body slammed into it. The fence rattled and swayed with the impact. He rammed a shoe into the chain link, successfully this time, and raised himself up on one leg, but it did no good. Blackie was just as happy with the other leg. Stephen grimaced as the dog snapped its jaws down on what looked like the detective's calf.

"Jesus!" the man cried, grunting and kicking. With some relief, Stephen saw that it was not the man's leg that was caught between Jackie's jaws, but the cuff of his trousers. And she was not about to let go of it.

The dog stood firm, growling low in her throat. She tensed her whole body and began to back up, her long legs outstretched and trembling, but looking surprisingly strong.

The detective clung tightly to the fence and tried to hoist himself over the top. When he did so, his pants began to slip down from his waist, revealing the top of his boxer shorts. They were white with thick green vertical stripes.

"Goddam dog!" He gave in slightly to Blackie's firm tugging, trying to pull his pants back up. "Let go!"

This seemed to only make Blackie more determined.

Again, the detective fought against her, and again, his pants started to creep down. There was another ripping sound, and though Stephen was too far away to know for sure, it looked like his pants were coming apart at the seat.

"Shit!" The man gave in again to Blackie's pulling, teetering on the fence, cursing to himself. He pulled up his pants, then kicked his leg at the dog, turning his foot this way and that. But Stephen knew it was no use. Blackie would not let go.

The detective seemed to realize this at the same moment Stephen did. He leaned forward, his belly hanging over the top of the chain link and managed to reach into his right-hand pocket. He pulled out some keys and tossed them over to the other side of the fence. He did the same with the rest of his pockets, throwing over a wallet, some sunglasses, and few smaller items Stephen couldn't make out.

Then, the grunting, cursing man yanked his belt out from the loops of his pants and tossed it over the fence, too. Throwing caution to the wind, he slung himself over the fence.

Unfortunately, his pants did not accompany him.

Blackie whipped her head back and forth in a frenzy, the free trousers between her teeth, snarling as if she thought, or perhaps wished, that the detective was still in them.

Stephen was laughing so hard that he had trouble standing up. He noticed that Ben had stopped running about halfway into his own backyard. He was watching, too, having such a laughing fit he was already on all fours, weeping.

The detective dropped down to the grass on his naked knees, snatching up all the things he had thrown over the fence.

A car was coming down the street, from the opposite direction of the trestle. The shaken man was only a few feet from the roadside. When he noticed the vehicle, he hesitated, then climbed uncertainly to his feet. He clutched his belongings to his belly, his pale green and white boxer shorts hanging out from under his shirttails.

The automobile was slowing down. Stephen recognized it—it belonged to a wiry old lady who lived at the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. Apparently, she saw the man and was considering stopping to help him.

The detective hesitated, then took one small step forward, looking as if he couldn't decide whether to ask for help or try to explain.

When the old woman got a closer look at him, seeing that he was in his underwear, she stomped on the gas and sped away. She kept glancing in her rearview mirror as if she was afraid he might try to run after her.

The detective, hesitated, still uncertain of what to do next, glancing around self-consciously as if he were wondering if anybody was watching. He started running towards his own car, clutching his belongings to his belly, trying not to drop anything. Still laughing, Stephen crawled along the hedge until he reached his own driveway, then went around to the back of his house and went inside.

The last image he saw was the detective wandering around in circles in the Houston's yard, searching for his walkie-talkie.
Chapter 1.5

The next morning, Stephen lay in bed a long time after his mother woke him up. He was normally a "morning person" and never had trouble getting himself out of bed. But today, he had a bad feeling about going to school, and he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

At first, he thought he might be ill, but there wasn't anything wrong with him. It was just a feeling, a black sensation, like something terrible was about to happen.

"Stephen, it's almost seven!" Julia called from the kitchen. "You're going to be late!"

"I think I'm sick," he called back weakly.

His mother hurriedly came from the kitchen, squeaking through the hall in her white nurse's shoes.

"What's wrong?" She sat down on the edge of his bed and put her cool hand to his forehead. "You don't seem to have any fever."

"It's my stomach." This wasn't altogether a lie. His belly did feel strange. Whatever the bad feeling was, it seemed to be centered there.

"Maybe you have an intestinal virus. One has been going around." She looked concerned, but glanced at her watch. Some days she had to be at the hospital at 7:30, and on those days she tried to leave the house by 7:00. She studied his face for a moment. "Is everything all right at school?"

"Everything's fine, mom." That was all it took to get him moving. He sat up in the bed. "I'm all right. I think I'll feel better after I eat something."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

His mother started making him breakfast as he got dressed for school. He decided that he was probably still just afraid to go outside because of what happened with the train detective. Surely, the man wouldn't be out looking for anybody this early in the morning.

After the incident with Blackie, Stephen had stayed inside the rest of the day. Ben had called him on the phone after supper and they had both had a good laugh about what happened. Ben said that after the detective found his walkie-talkie, he sped off in his car. Ben had then managed to recover the detective's pants from Mr. Capers' yard by distracting Blackie with a piece of raw hamburger meat. Even though the dog had chewed the trousers into nothing but an unrecognizable wad of black rags, Ben didn't want Mr. Capers to find them.

Stephen and Ben speculated for a while about whether or not the detective would come back, but Ben finally said, "Would you come back after running around the neighborhood in your underwear?"

Stephen thought Ben had a point, but he still wasn't convinced they were safe. After the detective had left, Ben could not find his sketch pad. Ben was sure that the detective had taken it with him. Ben's name wasn't written on it anywhere, but Stephen thought it was a sure signal they had not seen the last of Detective Nelson. Ben reassured Stephen that the man had no real authority to do anything, regardless of whether he tracked them down or not. Nelson was just an employee who worked for the railroad, not a real policeman, and his main job was to scare kids off the tracks. Of course, he could still call the police, which was what Ben had thought he was about to do when he had pulled out his walkie-talkie.

"You better make sure you carry your good luck penny around for a while," Stephen said, just before they hung up.

"I—uh, lost that penny," Ben said.

"You did? When?"

Ben hesitated. "A while back."

Stephen was puzzled by Ben's manner. "Well, you better make another one."

"I don't need no good luck penny. I'm not afraid of that damn train detective."

* * *

Despite Stephen's nervousness, he saw no train detective when he went outside to wait for Nick to come by. The fall weather had finally returned. The sky was gray and the temperature felt like it was in the 50's.

When Nick arrived, he had the convertible top up. Stephen was glad, since he hadn't bothered to wear a jacket.

Torch did not ride with the group today, though Stephen was sure he and Nick would "kiss and make up" as Ben liked to say, by the end of the week. On the way to school, Ben recounted the story about the train detective to Nick and Big Monk. Both of the boys got a charge out of it, especially the way Ben told it. He was a good storyteller, and threw in a lot of sound effects, like the ripping of the detective's pants and Blackie's bugle-like yelp.

Hearing it all again and laughing about it made Stephen feel better. However, by the time he got out of the car and headed for homeroom, the queasy feeling in his stomach returned.

It was Ray Hatcher he was worried about, of course. Ray Hatcher's reaction to a little ninth grade punk giving his girlfriend a necklace.

He pushed this from his mind and thought of Kristine again, though she had never really left his mind at all. It seemed that he had replayed the scene of him giving her the necklace, and of her kissing him, a thousand times in his head. He even thought he could still faintly smell her perfume on his cheek, though he knew it was probably just his imagination. He hadn't showered just so it might linger there a while longer.

When he went inside the school building and walked into his homeroom class, he immediately knew something was wrong.

"There he is," somebody said.

Stephen stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around the classroom. Everyone was just standing there, looking at him, as if they had all been waiting for him to arrive. When he looked across to the far side of the room, and the floor seemed to drop from underneath him.

Ray Hatcher was standing there, his beefy arms crossed over his barrel-like chest, leaning against the open windows. His 12th grade form looked like a giant towering among the 9th graders.

For a split second, Stephen considered running for his life. But he managed to maintain his composure. He did not want to look like a coward.

He walked across the room towards his assigned seat. Hatcher was standing right in front of it—evidently, somebody had told him exactly where Stephen sat.

Stephen tried to act completely natural as he walked, but he could already feel sweat forming on his forehead. Just as he reached his seat, Hatcher stepped into his path, blocking his way.

"You and I need to talk."

"Oh?" Stephen's throat was dry as toast. "What about?"

"I think you know." Hatcher opened one of his meaty hands, palm down. Something fell to the floor. It made a muted ping sound when it hit the tile.

Hatcher nodded to it. "What's this shit?"

Stephen looked down. It was the necklace.

"What's it look like? A neckless."

"I know what it is, you smart-ass. I want to know why you gave it to my girlfriend."

"Fight!" someone called out into the hallway.

Stephen glanced at the clock—it was 7:57. Mr. Connelly, the homeroom teacher, was usually in the room by now.

"I asked you a question," Hatcher said, moving a little closer.

Stephen hesitated, not knowing how to respond. He glanced over his shoulder. Kids were pouring in the door like ants who had discovered some crumbs of chocolate cake. They wanted to see some blood. Where was Mr. Connelly?

"I asked you a question, you little shit," Hatcher said, his hands curling into fists. "What the hell do you think you're doing, giving presents to my girlfriend?"

Stephen swallowed, then said, "It was her birthday."

Somebody behind Stephen giggled.

"Well, I've got a little birthday present for you."

Hatcher swung. The world seemed to turn upside down.

At first, Stephen had a sense of unreality about what was happening, as if he was dreaming. Then there was a dull pain in his head.

Hatcher had hit him in the right temple, his heavy fist swinging out a wide, roundhouse arc.

Stephen stumbled sideways. Everything had a numb, slow-motion feel. Just about the time Stephen realized that he was not dreaming, he received a second blow in the same spot. He staggered again, raising his arms to protect himself, but it did no good—Hatcher's massive fist seemed to smash right through them. After the third blow in the temple, Stephen fell against the window frame.

The room was spinning round and round. Stephen cringed against the window, holding his arms futilely around his head, waiting for the next blow. There was a fourth, then a fifth.

But then everything stopped.

The atmosphere in the room changed as if someone had thrown a switch.

Somebody else was there now. A firm hand took him by the arm, steadying him. "You okay?"

Stephen looked to the right, expecting to see Mr. Connelly, but all he saw was a spinning roomful of eyes, all staring at him. Some were concerned, some were laughing, some were scared.

The arm gently shook him. "Stephen? You okay?"

Stephen's own eyes finally focused on the person connected to the arm.

It was Ben.

"You okay?" Ben repeated, still gently shaking Stephen.

"Yeah, I'm—I'm allright." It felt like a knot the size of a golf ball was rising on his right temple.

"McClean!" people out in the hallway were shouting. "McClean's here!"

Now, the room was packed full of kids, with others trying to jam their way through the doorway. One boy whispered, "His brother killed a cop!"

When Ben was satisfied Stephen could stand up by himself, he let go of Stephen's arm and looked at Hatcher.

The football player took a small step backwards.

"What were you hitting him for?" Ben said. He noticed the necklace on the floor, picked it up, and handed it to Stephen. He looked back at Hatcher, waiting for an explanation.

The room had fallen so silent that all Stephen could hear was Hatcher's heavy breathing, which seemed to be quickening.

"I don't have any problem with you," Hatcher mumbled.

Ben laughed. "Oh, yes you do, my friend."

"What was this little prick doing giving my girlfriend a present?"

"He can give presents to anybody he wants," Ben said. "It's a free country."

Smiling at Hatcher, Ben took off his lightweight jacket and casually hung it on the back of a chair. He began to walk around the football player very slowly, grinning now and then, the small gap between his two front teeth showing.

Hatcher kept turning around in a circle so that he always faced Ben, his thick arms slightly raised, prepared to defend himself.

"You like to hit people so much," Ben said, "why don't you hit me, Ray?"

"I said I don't have a problem with you."

"And I told you: you do have a problem with me." Ben chuckled, glancing at the crowd around them. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Stephen noticed that there were as many girls crowded into the room as there were boys, which was unusual during a fight. He realized they had all come to see Ben.

"Oh, come on, Ray," Ben said, "instead of picking on a 9th grader, why don't you take a shot at me? I'm about your size. Maybe not as fat, but almost as tall."

This drew some laughter, but it ceased abruptly when Hatcher glanced over in its direction.

Whack!

In the split second Hatcher had looked away, Ben slapped him hard across the face. It happened so fast that Stephen barely glimpsed Ben's arm as it shot out and found its target.

"Come on, big man," Ben said. He began to dance in a lazy circle around Hatcher, so light on his feet he almost seemed to float. "What's the matter? Don't want to fight anymore?"

Whack!

Hatcher's other cheek turned crimson.

There was more laughter. Stephen could clearly see the outline of Ben's slender fingers on the left side of the Hatcher's face.

The big jock's eyes narrowed. They were filled with fire.

Ben slapped him again.

This time, however, Hatcher swung his right fist out in a broad arc, in the same manner he had struck Stephen. Ben gracefully backed out of its path, then slapped Hatcher again as the heavyset boy tried to regain his balance.

This went on for another two or three minutes, Ben tapdancing around Hatcher in one direction, then the other, slapping him over and over again, a wide grin on his face the entire time. Hatcher kept swinging back, but couldn't connect—Ben was just too quick for him. It was like watching a hornet buzzing around an angry bull.

"Teacher!" someone shouted.

Everyone in the room, including Ben and Hatcher, froze.

Ben's grin disappeared. At the same time, his eyes seemed to change color. Something about the shift in his expression made Stephen's blood run cold. The atmosphere in the room shifted in sync with this, too, from one of a lighthearted game to something much more serious.

What Stephen saw happen next made him understand exactly why Ben McClean had the reputation of being a "bad-ass." He had never seen Ben in a rage before. One second, Ben was just standing there. The next second, he sprang across the few feet that separated him from Hatcher. No, he didn't spring—he flew.

Ben delivered a flurry of punches so fast and clean that it sounded like a handful of coins being dropped on a drum. Hatcher tried to protect himself, but it was in vain. His arms moved a fraction of a second too late in response to each of Ben's rapid punches and jabs, leaving openings everywhere. Ben's fists found the gaps, and the yielding flesh beyond them, with blinding speed and precision.

The entire onslaught lasted less than five seconds, but it took a heavy toll on Hatcher. The big athlete staggered backwards, holding first his nose, which was spurting blood, then his side, not seeming to know which part of his body hurt the most.

Ben snatched up his jacket from the chair and pointed a slender finger at Hatcher's smarting face.

"Don't ever touch Stephen again," he said simply. "Or I'll kill you."

And then he was gone.

A few seconds later, Mr. Connelly swept into the room. "What's going on here?" He looked first at Hatcher, then over at Stephen, surveying the situation. Kids began pouring out of the classroom even faster than they had arrived.

Hatcher said nothing—he simply held his gushing nose.

Mr. Connelly glanced down at the floor, which was specked with blood, then looked at Stephen for an explanation.

Stephen said, "He slipped and hit his nose on the window."

Hatcher glanced over at Stephen, looking surprised by this answer. It was clear, however, that Mr. Connelly did not believe a word of it.

He turned to Hatcher. "What are you doing in my classroom?"

Hatcher shrugged and sniffled, still holding his nose. A trickle of bright red blood ran down his wrist.

"As I recall," Mr. Connelly said, "you already passed my English class. Barely."

There was laughter from the kids who were still there, most of whom were in Connelly's homeroom.

One look from Hatcher silenced them all.

"Was Ben McClean in here?" Mr. Connelly asked. He looked around at the students who were watching. "I thought I saw him coming out of this room."

No one uttered a word.

Looking annoyed, Mr. Connelly turned back to Stephen and Hatcher. "If you two have to settle your differences like animals, then you do it off the school grounds. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Stephen and Hatcher both said, almost in unison.

Mr. Connelly sighed and motioned to Hatcher's nose. "You better go down to the clinic and get that taken care of."

Hatcher started moving towards the door, the 9th graders giving him a wide berth. Just before he left the room, Mr. Connelly said, "Ray?"

Hatcher turned around, still holding is nose.

"I ever catch you in my classroom again, you can forget about playing football for this school."

* * *

Word about the incident spread through school faster than the grass fire Torch had started the day before. The damage that Ben had inflicted on Hatcher became more and more serious, at least according to the rumors. Between first and second periods, the word was that Hatcher had a broken nose. Between second and third periods, it was a broken nose and a broken rib, and Hatcher had been rushed to the hospital. By the end of fourth period, doctors were supposedly operating to remove a rib that had punctured Hatcher's lung.

Stephen didn't know what to believe, though he had trouble imagining Hatcher having anything more serious than a broken nose. After all, Hatcher was a football player and voluntarily subjected his body to much the same treatment on a daily basis. But the way his nose was gushing made Stephen think that the broken-nose rumor might be true.

By the middle of the day, Stephen seemed to have become famous. Or infamous. Between periods, students pointed him out in the hallway to each other, accompanied by phrases like "That's the guy," or "There's McClean's buddy." And the kids who already knew Stephen seemed to see him in a new light. Most of them kept their distance.

It certainly was a nice feeling for Stephen, after being a nobody. But something bothered him about his new reputation. At first Stephen thought it was because it was mostly negative—everyone seemed scared of him. But then he realized that it was because the new state of affairs actually had very little to do with him. Ben McClean had come to his rescue, that was all. This made him feel like a baby, and like a coward, even though he hadn't asked for Ben's help.

He began to worry about how he would act when he saw Ben. He was sure his older friend would expect a big thank you, but Stephen felt like telling Ben not to ever do anything like that again.

However, his worrying did not last long, at least not this particular line of worrying. He did not run into Ben in the cafeteria, as he usually did during fourth period—their scheduled lunch periods overlapped each other's by ten minutes. Nor had he passed Ben in the hallway by the main office after third period was over, which usually happened like clockwork.

Stephen asked a few eleventh graders, including Nick, where Ben was, but nobody seemed to know.

By the time fourth period ended, Stephen was sure that Ben was in serious trouble for what he had done to Ray Hatcher. Why else would he have left school?

Stephen began to wonder if all the rumors about Hatcher's serious injuries were true. Maybe Ben had been arrested! But it was hard for Stephen to believe that anyone would tattle on Ben—the whole school was afraid of him, including most of the teachers. And he was almost certain that Hatcher himself would keep his mouth shut for fear of what Ben would do to him later.

Still, where was Ben?

As he walked to his history class, he began to worry about something closer to his heart—Kristine's reaction to what had happened. Stephen was afraid that she would blame him for whatever Ben had done to Ray Hatcher and never speak to him again. Stephen kept telling himself that maybe if he explained everything to her, how Ben had come into the room when Hatcher was hitting him...but he knew it didn't sound good. Here Stephen was, walking around without a scratch on him, and her boyfriend was in the hospital!

Stephen had looked at himself in the restroom mirror and had been astonished to find nothing more than a slight bulge on his right temple, even though it had throbbed all day long as if someone was hitting it over and over again with a sledgehammer. And what made things even more hopeless was the fact that Kristine had questioned Ben's character just the day before, and Stephen had convinced her what a great guy Ben was!

No, he thought, whatever was between Kristine and me is definitely finished.

Over and done with.

He wished he could just drop out of American history so he wouldn't ever have to face her again. On his way to class, he considered just skipping and hitchhiking home. That way, he could not only avoid seeing Kristine, but might also be able to find out what had happened to Ben.

In the few moments between fourth and fifth periods, he walked all the way to the door that led to the east parking lot and back to his history classroom twice, unable to decide what to do. Finally, he stepped through the door to his history class. The bell had already rung—he was about two minutes late.

Everybody stared. Mr. Dirkshire had already started his lecture, and he stopped and watched Stephen walk to his seat. The curious look on Dirkshire's face told Stephen that even the teachers knew about what had happened.

Stephen sat down behind Kristine's empty desk. At least she wasn't in class yet. As Dirkshire resumed his lecture, Stephen glanced over at Renee Renfro. Their eyes locked, but she immediately looked away, a sour expression on her face.

Stephen waited. It wasn't unusual for Kristine to be late. The minutes clicked by on the clock behind Mr. Dirkshire. Five, ten, fifteen...

After twenty long minutes had gone by, it was obvious that Kristine was not coming to class. Stephen kept looking over at Renee, hoping he could point to Kristine's empty desk and get an explanation, but she did not even glance in his direction.

Stephen didn't hear one word of Mr. Dirkshire's lecture, his thoughts fleeting from one disturbing thought to another, wondering why Kristine wasn't there.

When the bell finally rang, Stephen worked up his courage and went over to Renee Renfro.

"Do you know where Kristine is?" he asked.

"Where do you think?" Renee snapped, nearly spitting the words at him. "At the hospital, with Ray."

Chapter 1.6

Stephen rode the bus home in a daze, slumped in the very back seat, looking at no one. He got off at his stop, which was about a block from his house, and walked home, barely glancing up from the pavement until he reached Ben's house.

He looked at the windows, dark and lifeless. Ben wasn't at home, he was certain. Ben was probably sitting in a holding cell at a police station somewhere, waiting for his mother or father to come get him.

Stephen went inside of his own house and straight to his room. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time, only vaguely aware of the dull throbbing in his temple.

He fell asleep for a little while. He awoke disoriented, the room nearly dark.

At first, he thought it was morning, but when he sat up in the bed, the pain in his temple brought everything back to him.

He heard a car door slam somewhere nearby. Then the faint sound of voices.

Stephen went over to the window. The car was across the street, in Ben's driveway. Ben was talking to the driver through the window of the passenger door. Ben smiled, waved, and the car backed out of the driveway and drove off.

Stephen pressed his face against the windowpane, trying to get a better look at the car. He spotted a small antennae sticking out of the trunk.

Stephen stepped back from the window, confused. The train detective? He pressed his face back up against the glass again. Ben was walking slowly up his own driveway, something in his left hand.

Stephen trotted out of his bedroom, across the living room, and threw open the front door.

Ben was just about to go around the corner of his own house.

"Ben!" Stephen called.

Ben turned around. He was smiling. He walked casually down the driveway towards Stephen.

They met each other at the hedge in Stephen's front yard.

"Where the hell have you been all day?" Stephen said, glancing down at the object been was carrying—it was the sketch pad. "That looked like the train detective's car."

Ben gazed down the street, in the direction the car had gone. "You know, that Nelson isn't a bad guy. He gave me coffee and donuts, kept me out of school all day." Ben held up the sketch pad. "He even gave this back to me."

Stephen could hardly believe what he was hearing. "What happened?"

"He showed up at school third period and had me yanked out of class. Scared the hell out of me. I thought it was about that Hatcher thing."

"But...what did he say? Did you go to Juvenile, or what?"

Ben laughed. "No, but I almost did. Nelson said, 'You and I can talk to each other like respectable human beings about this train business, or I can take you down to juvenile court and you can talk to a judge.' I said, 'I'd rather talk to you.' Nelson took me over to some office where a bunch of railroad security guys worked. That's where I had the coffee and donuts. He wanted to know why I was layin down in front of the train. I told him it was just a joke. He thought I was crazy, I guess. They made me talk to this psychologist lady. She asked me a bunch of stuff about my family. She wasn't too bad, either. You should have seen her legs."

Stephen just stared at Ben, trying to make some sense out of what he was hearing. "You mean they didn't do anything to you? Call your parents or anything?"

"Nope," Ben said. He glanced in the direction of the railroad tracks, his expresison darkening. "But..."

"But what?"

"Nelson said if I get caught down there again, he said I'm definitely goin to court and to jail."

Stephen looked down the street, where the car had gone, then back at Ben. He still couldn't believe Ben had gotten off so easy. "But what about his pants and all that? Wasn't he pissed off about what happened?"

"Well, kind of. But then he just sorta forgot about it." Ben paused reflectively, then smiled and said, "Me and him, we were even laughing about what happened. It was pretty funny, you know."

"Yeah. Did he ask anything about me?"

Ben's expression became grave. "Yes, he did, Stephen."

Stephen waited for Ben to elaborate, but Ben said nothing.

"Well, what? What did he say?"

"He said...he was coming to see you tomorrow."

"Oh, shit."

"Ha! I got you, didn't I? He didn't say nothin about you, except that I should keep you off the tracks, too, since I'm older than you."

Stephen just shook his head. Sometimes he wanted to strangle Ben. "I didn't know what had happened to you. When I didn't see you at school, I thought you got in trouble about beating up Hatcher."

Ben grinned. "That was cool, wasn't it?"

Stephen remembered how everyone had acted afterwards at school. He tried to smile.

"You're lucky I was there," Ben said.

"Yeah," Stephen said, but without much enthusiasm.

Ben watched him for a moment. "What's the matter? Didn't you think it was cool?"

"Yeah, sure," Stephen said. "But...well, you hurt Hatcher pretty bad, you know."

Ben laughed.

"He's in the hospital, Ben."

"No he's not."

"Well, Renee Renfro said he was there. She said Kristine was there with him, too."

"Ha! What a pussy! You know what he did? He went crying about his bloody nose to Coach Wagner, and then Wagner sent him to the hospital to have it x-rayed. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. He went home with his mommy before I ever left school."

"But...how do you know?"

"Because I know, that's why. Alice Renfro is in my third period English class. Kristine asked Alice to give them a ride to the hospital, and then they took him home and came back to school at the beginning of third period. Alice told me herself."

Stephen was confused. "But Renee Renfro...she told me Kristine was at the hospital with Hatcher, during fifth period."

"That's bullshit. Kristine went home with Hatcher to take care of him. God, what a baby. I've never seen anybody cry so much over a bloody nose."

The thought of Kristine being over at Ray's house, 'taking care of him,' was not a pleasant one for Stephen.

Ben sensed this. "He's a pussy, Stephen. He's no competition for you."

"You're crazy. I'm just a little 9th grader."

"You're not so little. Why didn't you hit him back?"

This had never crossed Stephen's mind. "I don't know...it happened too fast."

"Fast?" Ben chuckled. "There's nothing fast about that guy."

"Well, I mean, it caught me by surprise."

"I told you he was going to kick your butt if you gave Kristine that necklace. I don't see why you were surprised."

Stephen had no answer for this.

"Look, Stephen, this guy is just a big weenie. There's a lot of guys like Hatcher, football players, guys that seem tough but who really aren't. He may be strong on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a wussy." Ben thumped his chest. "It's what's inside that counts."

"Maybe," Stephen said.

"I know this guy, Stephen. He used to live right near us, but on the other side of the tracks."

"Really?" Stephen had no idea that Hatcher had ever lived close by.

"Yeah. He moved away about three years ago—his old man own's Hatcher Lumber. His mom got divorced and married somebody with deeper pockets, moved her and Ray into one of those mansions over in Disneyland. Rich assholes. Personally, I never liked the prick, and he never liked me. But he hung around the tracks with us, even though he was from the other side." Ben paused reflectively. "He was there the first time I did the tank car roll. He was there the day Eddie Bumpus got run over, too."

This was all interesting to Stephen, but it didn't change the fact that Hatcher was a lot older—and bigger—than he was. "In case you haven't noticed, Hatcher's about two inches taller than me and outweighs me by about fifty pounds."

"That don't mean nothin. He's a lot bigger than me, too. But I still kicked his ass, didn't I?"

"You're a great fighter."

"Ah, that's a load of crap," Ben said, waving the comment away. "I'm just fast. That's the only thing I got going for me. I can't hit very hard. Just fast."

"That's not the only thing," Stephen said.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got...well, a rep."

"Exactly," Ben said, pointing at him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

Stephen didn't understand what he meant.

"Where do you think rep comes from, Stephen? It starts on the inside. It starts with having balls, kid. People are afraid of me because of what I've done, what they've heard about me."

"Not only you," Stephen said.

Ben became very still. "What are you talking about?"

Stephen didn't want to say it aloud. "You know."

"No, I don't. What are you talking about?" His voice took on a more demanding tone.

"Nothing," Stephen said, backing away.

"No, Stephen," Ben said, staying with him. "What are you talking about? Tell me, goddammit."

"I don't want to fight with you," Stephen said, taking another step backwards

"No, you're going to finish what you're saying, not run away like a little pussy." Ben stepped very close to Stephen, too close for Stephen to escape.

Stephen swallowed once. "I just meant, your big brother."

Ben just stared at him, his brown eyes riveted on Stephen's. "My big brother."

Stephen nodded slowly.

Whack!

Stephen teetered to one side, then regained his balance. The slap was so fast he didn't even see it coming.

"Don't you ever mention my brother again!" Ben said, pointing at him.

Stephen raised his hand to his stinging face, staring in disbelief. Ben had never hit him before. His first impulse was to cry, but then anger flared up inside him.

"Don't you ever hit me again!"

Ben laughed. "Why not? What are you going to do about it, pussy?" He stepped closer to Stephen, but Stephen took another step backward, his hand still on his hot face

"I thought you were my friend."

"I don't have any friends."

Stephen opened his mouth to say something else, sharp words that would hurt Ben.

But nothing came.

He found himself fighting tears.

Ashamed, he turned and ran through his yard, to his front door.

"That's right," Ben yelled. "Run home to mama, baby!"

Stephen wanted to turn and yell back that his mother wasn't even home, but he just kept running. He went inside his house and slammed the door behind his back.

He fought his tears as hard as he could, but when he reached his bedroom, he could not stop them.

* * *

"What's the matter?" Stephen's mother called from outside his bedroom door. She tried the handle again. "Stephen? Are you all right?"

"Leave me alone!"

The twisting on the door handle stopped. "Honey, what's the matter? Are you still sick?"

"I'm not sick. Just leave me alone!" Stephen was laying on his bed. He was still crying a little bit, and he didn't want his mother to see him.

Julia seemed to hover around the door for a minute, but she finally gave up and walked off.

Stephen looked out his window. It was dark outside now. Across the street at Ben's house, he could see that the kitchen lights were on. Ben's mother was home, probably cooking dinner.

Stephen lowered himself back onto the edge of his bed, miserable. Everything had gone to hell in one day. He had gotten the shit beaten out of him, messed up his chances with the only girl who liked him, and lost his best friend. All in one day!

The worst thing was crying in front of Ben, or even crying at all! Ben was right—he really was a pussy. And he would probably always be one.

He looked at himself in the cracked closet mirror, wiping away the dried remains of his tears. He vowed then and there that he would never cry again. Not in front of Ben, not in front of anyone. Not even in front of himself.

"Stephen?" his mother called, twisting the door handle again.

"I told you, leave me alone!"

"Ben wants to talk to you."

Stephen brightened for a split second, then looked at his own broken reflection in the mirror. "Well, I don't want to talk to him."

"He's waiting for you outside." Julia paused. "Did you two have a fight or something?"

"No, I just don't want to talk to him." Stephen wiped his eyes again.

"I think you should a least talk to him, Stephen. He looks like he feels bad about whatever happened."

Stephen could tell by the sound of his mother's voice that she knew what was going on, at least in general terms. He stepped over to the door, hesitated, then opened it.

His mother's worried gaze met his, then quickly scanned him from head to toe. She looked relieved, like she expected to see evidence of some serious injury.

"He's out on the porch."

Stephen walked slowly through the living room and to the front door. Ben was sitting on the steps, in his lightweight jacket, facing the street. When Stephen stepped outside, Ben stood up and turned around.

"What do you want?" Stephen said.

"Nothin," Ben said.

"Then what are you doing here?"

Ben shrugged, his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to see how you were doin, that's all."

"I'm doing just fine. What do you think, you put me in the hospital?" Only then did Stephen realize how angry he was.

Ben looked down at the ground.

Stephen's mother appeared at the door. She glanced at them, then shut the door quietly behind them.

They both just stood there for a moment in the darkness.

"Well, what do you want?" Stephen said.

Ben kicked at the porch step.

Barely audibly, he muttered, "I guess I shouldn't have hit you."

Stephen felt a fleeting feeling of relief...but then he felt angry again.

Another awkward moment passed.

Ben said, "Wanna hang out across the street?"

Stephen watched him for a moment. This was as close to an apology as he would ever get from Ben McClean.

"Don't ever hit me again," Stephen said.

Stephen hesitated, then opened the door and called to his mother. "I'm going across the street with Ben."

"Don't be too long," Julia called back. "I'll be starting dinner soon."

They went on the opposite side of the street and sat on the concrete by the culvert, in the semi-dark. Ben lit up a cigarette, his face visible only for a second in the orange of his lighter flame. He did not look happy.

"When people talk about my brother, it just makes me crazy."

Stephen had an urge to ask Ben to tell him more about his brother, but he decided not to. He had only asked Ben about him once, and Ben had simply said, "I don't want to talk about it."

"You want a cigarette?" Ben said.

"No thanks. My mom will smell it on me."

"But you know, I wasn't only mad about my brother."

"You weren't?"

Ben took a long drag on his cigarette, then let out the smoke slowly. "I risked my butt for you this morning, teaching Ray Hatcher's a lesson. You don't seem like you appreciate it."

"I do. But..."

"What?"

Stephen was afraid that he would infuriate Ben again. But it needed to be said, sooner or later. "It made me feel like, you know, I can't take care of myself. Like I need somebody to come to my rescue."

"What's wrong with that? Hatcher's a lot bigger than you. You said so yourself."

"Yeah, I know, but you were right about what you said, too. I should have hit him back. I should have done something."

"You weren't ready for him. He caught you off guard."

Stephen smiled at this, at hearing Ben repeat his excuses. "That's not true. I was ready for him. I knew something bad was going to happen this morning. I even had a feeling about it before I went to school. I almost stayed home."

They both sat in silence, watching a couple of cars drive by. Then Mrs. McClean's sharp whistle cut through the night air. It was dinner time at the McClean house.

Ben stood up. "Hey, why don't you come over to my house for supper? My mother's cookin' hamburgers."

Stephen didn't answer.

"Come on, Stephen. I already asked my ma if it was okay."

Stephen glanced over at his own house. Ben had been asking him to come over for supper ever since he had moved into the neighborhood, and Stephen kept putting him off. And tonight, the invitation was obviously Ben's way of trying to make up for hitting him. Stephen did not want to refuse.

Ben added, "My old man's not home, don't worry. He hardly ever comes home before nine. Last night was unusual."

"I'm not worried," Stephen lied. "But my mother is already cooking."

"Just go tell her you're eating over at my house." He paused, then added, "Your mother's a nice lady. She'll understand."

Stephen could think of no other excuse. Besides, it felt good to be friends with Ben again. He didn't want to spoil it.

They went over to Stephen's house, told his mother, and then headed back across the street to Ben's house. By the time they reached Ben's driveway, Stephen already regretted the decision. The thought of being over at the McClean's, even if just for a little while, made him jittery. But he told himself he had to go through with it.

They went around to the back of the McClean's house. Ben opened the sliding glass door for Stephen. As they went inside, they were greeted by the heavy smell of frying hamburger meat. Ben led him into the kitchen, or the kitchen/living room, or whatever you wanted to call it. It was once just the kitchen, but in a fit of drunken enthusiasm, Ben's father had decided that he wanted to expand the room. Right then and there, Mr. McClean went out and grabbed a sledgehammer out of the back of his pickup truck, and proceeded to knock down the wall. This ill-inspired project had begun and ended with that one action, which was six months ago. Now, the living room and kitchen were connected, just as Mr. McClean wanted, only through a gaping, jagged hole in the wall. Electrical wires dangled from the opening, and there were still large chunks of plaster piled on one end of the room. Stephen had a feeling that this is the way it would remain as long as the McClean's lived there.

"Hi, Stephen," Mrs. McClean said. She was standing at the stove, a greasy spatula in her hand. She was wearing some tight black stretch pants and a low-cut blouse. Stephen knew she was in her late thirties, about the same age as his mom, but she looked a lot older, especially her face. It seemed more wrinkled, weathered-looking, like she had lived a difficult life. She had a small tattoo of a butterfly on her left shoulder, which somehow looked out of place on her aging body. She still kept her figure, but there was a flabbiness about her hips and stomach that made her look, in her tight-fitting clothes...well, "tacky." It was a word his mother used a lot, and in Mrs. McClean's case, it seemed to fit perfectly.

But even though Mrs. McClean was a little rough around the edges, she seemed to have a good heart, and Stephen didn't mind being around her. It was her husband who was scary.

"What do you like on your hamburger?" she asked.

"Everything," Stephen said.

She smiled, revealing the space in her teeth. "Good. I like a man who's easy to please." She motioned to the beat-up dinette table, which was already set. "Have a seat, Stephen. You shouldn't make yourself so scarce. I've been askin Ben to invite you over for supper ever since you and your momma moved in here, but I guess he's ashamed of us. Can't say I blame him none." She looked at Stephen as if she expected him to counter this in some way. It made him uncomfortable, because he couldn't think of anything to say.

Stephen and Ben sat down. The table was set with paper plates and napkins, but little else, except a few cans of soft drinks. The only piece of silverware was a big knife that was sticking out of an open jar of mayonnaise. The McCleans didn't seem to use real plates or silverware, though Stephen wasn't sure why. Maybe Mrs. McClean didn't like—or have the time—to wash dishes.

"Come on, Tommy," Mrs. McClean called. "Get your skinny ass in here and set down with Ben and Stephen."

"I'm comin," Tommy said, but he did not budge. He was lying on the scuffed-up hardwood floor in the other room, watching some cartoon on the TV set. The McClean's also didn't have any carpets or rugs on their floors. "Too hard to get the dirt out of em," Ben had said, when Stephen had asked about it.

Mrs. McClean was loading the table with paper plates full of lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. She sat down and glanced through the gaping hole in the wall at Tommy again. "Young'un, you get your little ass in here right now, or I'm gonna make it red."

Tommy slowly rose to his bare feet, though he didn't take his eyes off the television screen. Stephen didn't see how any of them could stand to watch the TV set, even Tommy. The color had left the screen some time ago and everything appeared in a washed-out black and white. And the picture was so snowy you could hardly tell what you were watching, probably because of the makeshift antenna that was jammed into the top of it. Ben's father had snapped off the original one in a fit of anger, then later replaced it with a bent-up coat hanger. They obviously couldn't afford cable TV.

"Now, Stephen, you just fix your hamburger any way you like," Mrs. McClean said.

All at once, there were arms reaching everywhere, mayonnaise and mustard smearing across buns with the big knife, cans of soft drinks popping open. The McCleans ate a little less formally than Stephen and his mom did, and it took a little bit of getting used to. But Stephen quickly joined in.

"I seen your mama a few times," Mrs. McClean said, after they all started chomping on their burgers. "She's a pretty lady."

"Thank you," Stephen said, after he swallowed his first bite. Stephen didn't know what he had expected, but the hamburger was very good. Delicious, actually.

"Where's your daddy?"

"He lives in Philadelphia. They're divorced."

"Oh," Mrs. McClean said, glancing at Ben. Apparently, her son had not shared this with her.

"And your momma, what does she do for a livin? Ben said she works at a hospital or somethin."

"Momma," Ben said, "leave him alone. What are you, a detective?"

"I'm just tryin to be polite, Benny."

"My name's Ben."

"Ben-ny," Tommy said, grinning at Ben between bites of his hamburger. He was taking full advantage of being inside the safety range of his mother.

Ben glared at him. "Ben."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Stephen," Mrs. McClean said, though she looked slightly hurt.

"It's okay," Stephen said. "My mother's a nurse at General Hospital."

Mrs. McClean brightened. "A nurse," she said, wiping a bit of ketchup off the corner of her mouth. "That's real nice." She glanced around the table, holding her ketchup-smeared finger in the air. "Shit, I forgot the napkins. Ben, reach over there grab a handful, will you?"

Ben did as she asked. Stephen was always a little shocked by her language—he had never heard parents talk like that in front of their kids.

She passed the napkins around, looking embarrassed about forgetting them. "You know, I thought about bein' a nurse once myself, but I never had no money to go to college, and—"

Mrs. McClean stopped talking mid-sentence. She and Ben looked at each other.

Stephen didn't know what was going on. Then he heard the rumbling sound outside.

"Oh, Lord." Mrs. McClean said this as if the world were coming to an end.

A second later lights flashed in the sliding glass door. A pickup truck pulled around to the back of the house.

Ben glanced at Stephen, then looked at his mother with exasperation. "What's he doing home?"

Mrs. McClean did not answer. She set her hamburger down, got up, and went into the den to meet her husband.

"Don't worry," Ben whispered to Stephen, "she'll keep him occupied." But Ben's face looked pale.

Stephen suddenly had no appetite. He set down his half-eaten hamburger on the paper plate. He heard the sliding glass door open. Then, faintly, Mrs. McClean, speaking in a hush: "We've got company tonight. Why don't you go out and get yourself somethin to eat?"

"Company?" a deep voice said. "What company?"

Stephen wanted to bolt, but he knew it was too late. He would have to suffer through whatever was coming.

Mr. McClean pushed his way past his wife and stood in the kitchen doorway in his dirt-caked work boots, squinting at Stephen and his two sons. He was huge. His face was unshaven and dusty-looking. He motioned a grimy hand at Stephen. "That's your 'company'? Just some kid?"

"Please, Daryl, just go on out and drink with your friends tonight. What are you doin home so early, anyways?"

"I live here, goddammit. And I ain't goin nowhere." He lumbered into the kitchen, scowling first at Stephen, then at Ben and Tommy. He smelled like sweat and dust and stale beer.

"Hi, daddy," Tommy said uncertainly, as if he didn't know what kind of reaction it might trigger.

His father just grunted, then turned around and faced his wife. "Fix me somethin' to eat, woman! I'm hungry."

Mrs. McClean sighed and went to the stove. "I'll fix you a hamburger. Just go in there and watch TV until it's ready."

"I don't want no goddam hamburger."

"Well, that's what you're gettin, or you can go out like I told you."

Mr. McClean muttered something to himself, then turned and glowered at Stephen, Ben and Tommy. Stephen felt a rush of relief when the big man moved past them. Nobody moved a muscle, as if he were a huge, predatory beast that might be triggered to attack by the slightest motion.

Mr. McClean lumbered through the opening in the wall, ducking under the crumbling plaster and avoiding the dangling wires, into the living room. After teetering for a few seconds, he tumbled onto the ratty-looking couch that was across from the TV set. The couch made a ka-thump sound as it took his considerable weight—one of its four legs was missing.

"Don't you sit on that couch in those clothes!" Mrs. McClean yelled. "They're filthy!"

Stephen was surprised by this—the couch looked even dirtier than Mr. McClean's work outfit. But the big man paid his wife no mind. In fact, he defiantly put both of his feet, muddy work boots and all, up on the coffee table across from the couch.

"Let him be, momma," Ben whispered. "At least he's minding his own business."

"I heard that, boy. Woman, bring me a goddam beer!"

Mrs. McClean quickly opened the refrigerator, popped the top on a can of Budwieser, and carried it to him.

"He'll leave us alone now," Ben whispered, finally picking up his hamburger.

Stephen picked up his burger, too, and took a bite. He had to force himself to chew and swallow. The situation felt extremely volatile. Mrs. McClean was talking softly to her husband. Stephen couldn't really hear what she was saying, over the chatter of the TV set, but it sounded like she was trying to pacify him. Stephen tried to ignore them. He was sitting at an angle to the living room and couldn't see what was going on unless he turned and peered through the gaping hole in the wall. He wished that Ben or Tommy would say something, but both boys just sat there, silently chomping their burgers and staring at the table.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please," Mr. McClean said, raising his voice.

Ben glanced over at Stephen, but said nothing.

"Let go!" Mrs. McClean said. It sounded like there was a scuffle of some kind, but Stephen resisted the temptation to look up from his paper plate.

Mrs. McClean came back into the kitchen, straightening her blouse. "Honestly," she muttered, glancing uncomfortably at Stephen. She pulled her chair out to sit back down, but her husband stepped through the hole in the wall.

He grabbed her by the arm. "Come on, baby, gimme some of that good stuff." Still holding his beer can in one hand, he reached out with the other and slid it between her legs, grabbing her crotch.

"Stop it!" she said, slapping his hand away.

"You're not gonna make me pay for it, too, are you?"

"Can't you see we have company!"

He dazedly gazed across the room. "What company you keep blabbering about? Some punk friend of Benny's!"

"He's our neighbor, Daryl. He lives across the street." She looked at Stephen and tried to smile. "He comes from a very good family."

Stephen felt like crawling under the table.

Mr. McClean squinted at Stephen, as if he was having trouble focusing, then took a swig from the can. A rivulet of beer ran down his chin. "Well, at least he's white." He glowered at Ben. "At least he's not a nigger or a spic or a chink, like the ones your sorry ass usually hangs around with." He took another swig of beer. "This neighborhood's gone to hell in a hand basket. I can remember a time when everyone on the block was white. Now it's full of all this low-life, half-breed trash." He let out a long, watery sounding belch, then took another swig.

Ben looked at Stephen, embarrassed, and looked down at his plate.

Mrs. McClean glanced at Ben and Stephen, humiliated. "Why don't you two take your food and go eat in Ben's room?"

Ben needed no further prodding—he scooped up both plates and said, "Get the drinks" to Stephen.

Stephen picked up both glasses and followed Ben into the bedroom he shared with Tommy. As Ben shut the door, Stephen heard Mrs. McClean telling Tommy to go and watch TV in the living room.

Stephen had to get the hell out of here. He didn't want to hurt Ben's feelings, but this was too much.

"He's not usually this bad," Ben said, looking as if he didn't want to make eye contact with Stephen. "He's having trouble at work, some new foreman or something is coming down hard on him."

Mr. McClean was still bellowing in the kitchen. "I'll turn on some music."

While Ben turned on the radio, Stephen looked around the room—he had only been here a few times, and it was fascinating. Every inch of wall space was covered with Ben's artwork—charcoal sketches, water colors, pastels, works done in color marker and colored pencil. Ben stuck to landscapes and especially liked drawing trees. Stephen could understand why drawing people didn't interest him.

There was a large, colorful canvas leaning against the far wall. "Hey," Stephen said, "that's the big oak tree down by the tracks."

"Yeah," Ben said modestly. "I just finished it a few days ago."

The clearing around this tree was Ben's favorite spot, or so Ben had said. The picture was vibrant and alive. Stephen glanced around and then noticed that Ben had made several drawings and paintings of the same huge, gnarled oak tree. They were all almost the same, made from slightly different angles.

But the new one was the best, Stephen thought. It was spectacular.

Ben's bedroom door burst open.

Mr. McClean stumbled in, a beer in his hand. His bloodshot eyes glanced at Stephen, then at Ben's new painting, then at Ben himself.

"Did you fill out the damn application?" he said to Ben.

"I'm thinkin' about it."

"'Thinkin'about it'," Mr. McClean muttered. He glanced at Stephen. "If you come from a good family, then why don't you talk some sense into my lazy-ass son?" He belched, then motioned with the beer can to Stephen. "I busted nut for twenty years, workin' construction, and this sorry son-of-a-bitch just pisses his life away! He could sit on his ass and make an easy livin, just using his hands! But he just pisses his life away, right down the goddam toilet! Right down the goddam toilet, I'm tellin' ya!"

Ben looked at the floor. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

"You hear that?" Mr. McClean said to Stephen. "He don't want to talk about it right now! A full scholarship to a damn art institute, where he don't have to pay nothin'! But that ain't good enough for him!"

Ben glared at his father.

Mr. McClean shouted, "You want to draw this shit instead of makin' a living!" Before Ben could block him, he swung one leg out and kicked his work boot clean through the new painting of the oak tree. Canvas tore.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Ben yelled. He leapt up and shoved his father backwards.

Stephen barely got out of the way. He slipped out the door and ran smack into Mrs. McClean, but kept moving, scrambling out of the house as fast as he could.

He dashed down Ben's driveway, his heart racing, and then slowed. He could faintly hear more yelling and what sounded like someone hitting the floor or a wall. When he reached the street, he turned around and looked at the house. He couldn't see what was happening inside, but he could still hear yelling and banging.

Stephen started to cross the street, then changed his mind and decided to go over the culvert to wait and see what happened. By the time he sat down on the concrete slab, the raucous sounds from the McClean house had ceased.

A dark form was moving down the driveway. Stephen crouched beside the culvert, afraid it was Mr. McClean. The figure turned towards Stephen, moving very fast.

Stephen froze. He glanced across the street, gauging the distance, hoping he could make it across before whoever it was reached him. Just as he started to run, he saw that it was Ben.

Ben was moving awkwardly, bent over, as if he were sick at the stomach. He was carrying the broken canvas. "Take this," he gasped, then dropped down to the ground, sucking in long breaths of air, leaning on one knee.

"Are you okay?" Stephen said, taking the canvas.

"I'm gonna kill that son-of-a-bitch," Ben said, in between breaths. "I swear to God!" Ben's eyes were squeezed shut. He was in severe pain.

"What happened?" Stephen whispered.

"Kicked me in the balls," Ben said weakly.

"Jesus..."

"But I got him good." Ben sucked in a shaky breath. "I hit him in the face, really hard. I've never done that before."

Stephen felt strange. It was hard for him to understand a family like this, fathers and sons beating each other with such savage intensity.

Ben finally took the canvas from Stephen and inspected the damage. He flicked on his lighter to get a better look at the rips.

"I can probably fix it," he said, sniffling. "I can tape it back together from the back and paint over the torn spots."

Stephen didn't know what to do. He had never seen Ben cry before. It was the most painful thing he had ever witnessed. He looked away, his own guts wrenching just at the sound of Ben sniffling. Stephen wanted to say something, but no words would come out.

Ben stopped crying after about a minute and sat down, carefully laying the canvas in the grass.

"I hate that son-of-a-bitch," Ben said. "I wish he was dead."

"Don't say that, Ben."

"I mean it, Stephen. I wish he would get run over by the train, like Eddie Bumpus."

Stephen didn't respond. He wanted to know more about the art school scholarship or whatever it was that Ben's father had been talking about. But this wasn't the right time.

Ben glanced back at his house, wiping his eyes. "Shit...I need to get my sleeping bag."

"You can stay over at my house."

"No," Ben said firmly, looking morosely at his own home. "I don't want your mom to know what goes on in there." He wiped his eyes again, then looked at Stephen. "Don't tell her what happened tonight, okay?"

"I won't," Stephen said.

Neither he nor Stephen spoke for a long time.

Finally, Stephen said, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Ben didn't respond. Stephen took that as a "no." But he still had to muster up his courage for a moment before he opened his mouth again.

"What was your dad talking about, with the scholarship?"

Ben seemed not to hear the question. He touched his shirt pocket, reaching for a cigarette. "Damn it, I left my smokes in the house, too."

Stephen waited for an answer. Ben looked at Stephen for a moment, and Stephen thought he had that guilty look that had been on his face earlier. "Ah, it's just a stupid commercial art school scholarship, that's all."

Stephen had not heard a word about this from Ben. "But that's pretty good, isn't it? A scholarship to art school?"

"Hell no. You know what it is? It's a commercial art institute. Ms. Marshall knows some teachers there, and she got them to offer me the chance for a scholarship."

"Oh," Stephen said. Ms. Marshall was Ben's art teacher at school. Stephen thought this over, but it still seemed like a good opportunity. "But your dad said it was a full scholarship. That means you don't have to pay anything, right?"

"Yeah, but you don't get it, Stephen. It's a commercial art school. That's not what I do. They teach you to draw logos and advertisements and billboards and stuff like that, for business. Then you get a job working for some company."

"Oh," Stephen said.

"What I like doin'—painting landscapes and all—that's called 'fine art'."

Stephen thought this over. "But isn't it hard to make a living with that?" Stephen hesitated, afraid he would sound like Ben's father. "I mean, isn't it easier to make money doing the commercial art stuff?"

"Sure it's easier. But that don't mean I want to do it."

Stephen thought about his own mother, and her writing. He realized that there was a parallel. "I know what you mean. But my mom, she's a writer, and she has to work as nurse to make money to live. She spends all her free time writing. That's what she really loves."

Ben looked over at him, surprised. "She's a writer?"

"Yeah."

"You mean a book-writer?"

"Yeah, but stories, too. Like for magazines."

"Wow...I didn't know that..." Ben paused. "No wonder she's always typin' on that computer. I wondered what she was doin'..."

"She's not famous or anything. She never has sold any books, but she sold some of her short stories. To women's magazines."

"That's really somethin'," Ben said, smiling. "A writer. Right here in this crummy neighborhood." Ben paused. "Does she make much money doin' it?"

"You think we would live in this crummy neighborhood if she did?"

Ben laughed. "Stupid question."

"But I mean, she has to make enough money for us to live doing something. You know, a "day job." That's what she calls it. She doesn't like being a nurse that much, but she does it so she can write. Someday she says she'll write a bestseller and make a lot of money, and then she'll stop bein' a nurse." Stephen doubted that would ever happen, but it was a nice dream, at least for his mother.

Ben slowly shook his head. "No way, Stephen. No way am I going to spend my life makin' advertisements and billboards for some greedy businessmen."

"But Ben—"

"I don't want to talk about it! Whose side are you on, anyway! My father's?"

Stephen shut his mouth. He didn't want to get into another fight with Ben.

"Well, I probably better go," Stephen said. "Where will you sleep?"

"Outside, as usual."

Chapter 1.7

Stephen tossed and turned that night. He felt guilty about thinking that maybe Mr. McClean wasn't all bad...yet it still did not seem unreasonable to Stephen that he wanted Ben to take the commercial art school scholarship. Stephen could understand why Ben's father was pissed off.

But if Ben didn't want to do it, there was no changing his mind.

Stephen had a tangle of nightmares, mostly about being caught by Ray Hatcher when Ben wasn't around. In one dream, he knew Ben was dead. Stephen wasn't sure how he knew this, but he knew it as sure as he knew his own name. No one in the dream would tell Stephen what had happened, or exactly how Ben died. And what was worse, no one seemed to care.

Stephen was actually glad when his mother stuck her head in the door and told him it was time to get up. He had been laying there for at least an hour in the bluish dawn light, thinking about all the dreams, and at the same time trying not to think about them.

He glanced at the necklace that he had given Kristine and that Ray Hatcher had given back to him. He had put it in his pocket after Ben had handed it over to him in the classroom, just before Ben had started in on Hatcher. Stephen had nearly forgotten about the necklace until he had gone to bed—it had fallen on the floor when he had taken off his jeans. Now, it hung from one of the knobs on the top drawer of his dresser.

As he took his shower, he began to worry about how he would face Kristine today in history class. What would she say? How would she act?

He tried to imagine her coming into Mr. Dirkshire's room and sitting down at the desk front of him, then turning sideways in her seat, as she usually did before she started talking to him. But he couldn't imagine anything except him staring at the back of her head.

The other thing that worried him was Ray Hatcher. Stephen dreaded seeing Hatcher again, but of course it was unavoidable. Normally, they passed each other in the hallway at least once each day, and often, several times. Until yesterday, Hatcher didn't even know Stephen existed—Stephen was just some ninth grader in a sea of other ninth graders. But Hatcher knew him now, there was no doubt about that.

As Stephen stepped out of the shower, he wished that he could travel a few days back in time and start all over again. He would not give Kristine the necklace, Ben would not beat up Ray Hatcher, and everything would be just fine. Why couldn't he have been happy just talking to Kristine for 50 minutes, five days a week? Why did he have to ruin everything by giving her the damn necklace?

But of course it wasn't possible to go back in time.

* * *

During the ride to school in Nick's car, Ben was unusually quiet. He looked all right, considering the fight he'd had with his father the night before. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Stephen supposed this was because Ben had slept outdoors.

In fact, this morning Nick and all three of his passengers were quiet. Torch showed up with Big Monk and handed Nick a fistful of quarters for gasoline, as if this would rectify the bad blood between them. Apparently, it did. Nick just grunted and Torch climbed into the back seat. Either that, or Nick was just too tired to fight with him anymore.

It seemed that everyone was down that morning. Part of the reason may have been the bad weather. The sky was hopelessly gray, and from it fell a cold, misty drizzle.

During his first couple of classes, Stephen spent most of his time staring out the windows at it, trying not to think about Kristine or when and where he would run into Ray Hatcher.

The latter happened between 3rd and 4th periods. Stephen came around a corner and found Hatcher walking towards him with one of the football players he had been with when Stephen had watched them from the water fountain.

Stephen considered turning around and heading back around the corner, but it was too late. They had already seen him.

He decided to continue down the hall and pretend that he was so absorbed in thought that he didn't notice them.

"Hey, Ray, look who's here," Hatcher's friend said. His name was Reed something, Stephen thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen could see Hatcher staring at him as if Stephen was trespassing on his personal property.

Stephen kept walking.

"Hey!" Hatcher said, just as Stephen was adjacent to them.

Stephen slowed a little bit but did not stop.

Hatcher glanced up and down the hallway, then fell in step behind Stephen. A second later, Hatcher grabbed him by the collar and shoved him in between a row of lockers and an open classroom door.

Hatcher pushed his face in close to Stephen's, grabbing Stephen by a fistfull of shirt. "Where's your big buddy now?"

Stephen did not answer.

Reed said, "He's probably visiting his scum bag brother on death row."

"Yeah." Hatcher laughed. "Same place that white-trash Ben is gonna be in a few years."

Stephen wanted to tell them that Ben's brother was not on death row, that he was just in prison. But somehow he didn't think that would help.

Hatcher tightened his grip on Stephen's shirt, twisting it and pulling Stephen's face within an inch of his own. "You listen to me, you little nit-shit. I'm gonna fuck you up so bad Ben McClean won't even recognize you. I don't know how or when, but I'll get you. And if you ever so much as look in Kristine's direction, I'll fuckin kill ya, McClean or no McClean. You got me?"

Stephen remained silent. He wanted so badly to take some action, anything, but what could he do? He could spit in Hatcher's face or tell him to fuck off, but this would only cause Hatcher to lose control and beat the hell out of him right there. Ben would find out, beat Hatcher up again, and they would be right back in the same place.

"You got me?" Hatcher said, giving Stephen a hard shake.

Stephen decided that he at least would not answer in a way that said he would obey Hatcher's commands or that he was scared by the threats. "I heard what you said."

Hatcher seemed satisfied and let go of him. With a sneer, Hatcher said, "Have a nice day, prick."

Reed laughed, and they walked off.

* * *

The incident with Hatcher threw Stephen into depression. He spoke to no one during fourth period and continued to look out the windows, now not even seeing the drizzle. All he could seem to see was Ray Hatcher's sneering face, his bovine-like jaws moving from side to side as he spoke. Stephen heard the words over and over again. If you ever so much as look in Kristine's direction, I'll fuckin kill ya...

Before Hatcher had even finished talking, Stephen had decided he wouldn't tell Ben what Hatcher said. It was pointless.

Anyway, Stephen thought, who cares? He was disgusted with the whole situation. Let Ray Hatcher have Kristine. What difference did it make to him? Stephen had thought that she was special, but he had obviously been mistaken. Any girl who had a brainless jock boyfriend like Ray Hatcher had to be a loser herself.

He ran into Ben right after fourth period, but he just muttered a hello. Ben asked him if something was wrong, and Stephen simply said "I'm tired" and kept moving down the hallway. He walked straight to Mr. Dirkshire's classroom, went inside, and plopped down in his seat. The room was nearly empty, since the bell that ended fourth period had just rung.

As he sat there, staring out the window, he was surprised how cool he had become about seeing Kristine. He was almost apathetic. Stephen really didn't care what she thought about him, how she acted towards him, or anything else. He was finished with her, Ray Hatcher, and the whole silly business. He decided that if Kristine even said one tiny word to him, he would say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to talk to you anymore." If she continued, he might even raise his hand and tell Mr. Dirkshire that she was disturbing him, since he couldn't move to another seat. Of course, he would never do this, but it was a satisfying fantasy.

After a couple of minutes the classroom began to fill. Renee Renfro walked in. Stephen made a point to keep staring out the window. He decided he wouldn't have anything to do with her, either, not that she had ever cared to have anything to do with him.

The bell rang. Dirkshire plunged into his painfully boring lecture. Kristine still had not arrived. She was probably in a hallway somewhere, having a lovey-dovey last minute talk with her dopey football hero. Stupid girl.

Stephen found Mr. Dirkshire's voice annoying. Usually he paid no attention to Dirkshire at all, but today, the teacher sounded like a nasal-toned disc jockey on one of those stations that plays more commercials than music. Today the man definitely earned the nickname "Dorkshire."

Stephen decided that he would take notes. Though he carried a spiral notebook around with him that he kept in his locker—Stephen wouldn't be caught dead carrying even a notebook home from school—he never took notes in Dorkshire's class or any other class, for that matter. He had an excellent memory and could pass all the tests just by skimming over the material in the textbooks. But today, taking notes would keep his mind occupied. And it would be a good thing to be doing when Kristine came in, a good excuse not to talk to her.

He opened his notebook and started writing, scribbling down everything Dorkshire said almost as fast as he said it. Several students gave Stephen curious glances, since he never even paid attention, let alone took notes. He noticed that Renee Renfro glanced at him a couple of times, too.

He became so absorbed in this new activity that he almost lost track of time. When he looked up at the clock, he realized that the period was half-over, and Kristine had still not arrived.

He finally glanced over at Renee, but she was sitting with her head against one hand, staring in Dorkshire's direction, looking incredibly bored.

Stephen stopped writing. It was clear that Kristine wasn't coming to class again, for some reason. He wondered where she was, but then checked himself and started writing again. What difference does it make?

After a few more minutes, he chewed on his pen, and he found himself looking glumly at Kristine's empty seat. Okay, maybe he did care where she was, a tiny bit. But this was just out of friendly concern. Maybe she was sick. It wasn't like her to miss class. She was usually late, but she always showed up. Come to think of it, he could not remember her missing a single class all semester. Now, the very next day after the incident with Hatcher, she's wasn't in class. Maybe not even at school.

Stephen looked over at Renee again. She was still sitting in the same position, staring off into space in the general direction of Dorkshire. Stephen considered asking her where Kristine was as soon as the bell rang. He immediately abandoned this idea, however, when he remembered how Renee had responded when he had asked her the same question the day before.

Stephen closed his notebook and put his pen away—it was silly to be taking notes when he didn't need them.

He spent the rest of the period looking out the window, at the tedious drizzle, thinking about nothing in particular. By the time the bell finally rang, he decided that he didn't care where Kristine was, and that he would not think about her any more, ever.

* * *

During 6th period, a girl came to the door of Stephen's classroom. She spoke to the teacher, Mr. Foster, in a low voice.

Mr. Foster looked directly at Stephen. "You're wanted in the office."

"Me?" Stephen said dumbly.

"Yes, you! Now get moving."

Stephen slowly picked up his notebook and rose, aware of the "uh-oh" and "You're busted!" comments being whispered at him.

He followed the straight-looking girl down the hallway and around the corner to the main office, his heart racing all the while. Every possible reason for being called to the office began to run through his head, starting with the fight with Ray Hatcher the day before and ending with his mother being in a car accident, or worse.

The girl led him through the door to the main office, where he was intercepted by the principal's dumpy secretary.

"Come with me, Stephen."

She led him through another door and to a conference room.

Stephen looked inside.

The first thing he saw was a big black notebook that lay open on the table.

Beyond that: the train detective.

The paunchy man was standing by the window, gazing out at the rain, as Stephen had been doing all day.

"This is Mr. Nelson, a staff detective from Southern Express railroad," the secretary told Stephen. "He wants to speak with you for a few minutes. Is that all right with you? You don't have to talk to him, if you don't want to."

Nelson eyed him. "That's right. If it's better for you, I can just come over to your house later this evening, when your parents are home."

"No," Stephen said quickly. "I'll talk to you here."

Nelson smiled.

The secretary left and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Sit down, sit down," Nelson said. Stephen hesitated, then took a seat at the table. Nelson sat down opposite Stephen.

"Listen, son, first thing I wanna tell you is, relax. You aren't in any kind of trouble. Not yet, anyway. I just want to chat with you a few minutes. Fair enough?"

"Okay," Stephen said. His voice trembled a little bit.

Nelson tapped on the table a few times with his fingertips. "Stephen, you have to understand somethin. My job at the railroad is mainly to protect people—kids, mostly—from gettin killed by our locomotives. Of course, preventin' vandalism is also a part of my job, but honestly speakin', it's not much of a problem in this part of the country. Mostly, it's kids gettin' run over by the train, like this Bumpus kid who was killed a few years back in your neighborhood." Nelson paused. "Did you know that boy?"

"No, sir. I—" Stephen's throat was dry. "I just moved here over the summer."

"I see." The detective picked up his pencil and wrote something in the notebook. "Well, anyways, a lot of kids get killed or maimed by trains every year, just like this Bumpus boy. And it's a damn shame—a senseless loss of life, loss of opportunity, spendin the rest of your days in a wheelchair, not able to play baseball or get a good job or even find a wife, sometimes..." He paused for his words to sink in. "Of course, one reason the railroad don't like it because most of the time the parents hire a lawyer and sue for millions of dollars, sayin its our fault, and sometimes they win. This costs the railroad a lot of money. But on the other hand, it's only money. What concerns me, and the folks at the railroad, is the tragedy of it all. You can't put no price on somebody's life, or their arms or their legs. Can you, Stephen?"

"No sir."

Nelson looked at Stephen for a long moment. Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Son, the reason I wanted to talk to you is, this Ben McClean fella...he a good friend of yours?"

Stephen thought about the night before when Ben had said that he had no friends. But Stephen decided to tell the truth, at least from his point of view. "Yes sir."

"Well, I can understand that, cause Ben seems like basically a good kid. You probably know I talked to him down at our main office a coupla days ago."

Stephen nodded.

"He's loyal, too, because I asked him about you and he said he hardly knew you, that you were new to the neighborhood, and that he'd never seen you on the railroad tracks before." Nelson paused. "But that ain't quite the truth, is it, son?"

Stephen wondered if he should deny hanging around on the tracks, but then remembered how obvious it had been, since he had on exactly the same shirt that had been mentioned in the report. "No, sir."

"You have been messin around on the tracks with Ben McClean."

Stephen swallowed. He decided it was better not to lie about anything. "Yes, sir. But we didn't vandalize anything."

"Well, that's neither here nor there." He paused and studied Stephen for a second. "You seem like a pretty smart kid. I think you understand well enough how dangerous locomotives are, don't you?"

Stephen nodded.

"Well, that's one big difference between you and your friend Ben. He don't understand." Nelson paused, then said, "No, that ain't exactly right. What I mean to say is, he just don't care. Yesterday, we had him talk to a counselor we call in sometimes, a child psychologist. He may have told you bout that, too." Nelson waited. Stephen nodded. "Anyways, her opinion was that this McClean boy is 'highly suicidal.' Do you know what that means?"

Stephen nodded again.

"Of course you do. Like I say, you seem like a pretty smart kid. I probably don't have to tell you that people like McClean have a way of pullin other people down with themselves, if you know what I mean. I strongly suggest that you re-think your friendship with him." Nelson paused. "Now, I don't want you to misunderstand me. Like a said, I think this McClean is basically a good kid. Talented, too. But he's bad news for you, Stephen. Do you understand what I'm sayin?"

"I think so," Stephen said.

"Well, then, that's all I wanted to talk to you about."

Stephen started to get up, relieved.

"Except one other thing."

Stephen lowered himself back into his seat, expecting the worst.

"I always try to reason with kids before I resort to other methods to keep them out of harm's way. Give em a chance to think things through and change on their own. That's always best. But I only give em one chance. If they don't listen, then I have no choice but to rely on the other methods. The proven methods." Nelson paused. "You know what I'm talkin about, don't you son?"

"I think so."

"Juvenile court, detention centers, boys homes, things like that..."

Stephen tried not to react, but even the words sounded scary.

"In a nutshell," Nelson said, "I've already given you your one chance to reason with yourself and change your ways. If I catch you messin round the railroad tracks again, you're goin straight to juvenile court. No second chances. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"I told McClean the same thing."

He watched Stephen for a moment, then said, "Okay, then. I guess we understand each other. He stood up and touched Stephen's shoulder. "You better get back to class, you've missed enough already."

Chapter 1.8

Stephen went straight home from school and tried to do his algebra homework, but he had trouble concentrating. The detective's words kept whirling around and around in his head, mixed in with Ray Hatcher's threat.

He knew Nelson was just trying to scare him, and it had worked, at least to some degree—he decided that he would not hang around the railroad tracks any more, with or without Ben. And what Nelson had said about Ben being suicidal—that sounded right to him, too. But who wouldn't be suicidal, living in a family like that? A father who beat him; a mother unable to do anything about it, who dressed like a hooker and probably was one; a big brother that was serving a life sentence for murder. Stephen was surprised Ben hadn't tried to kill himself already.

Then again, maybe he had.

Stephen thought about the day that he lay spread-eagle in front of the train, and the stories he'd heard about Ben's famous "tank car roll" trick, the trick that Ben often pressed him to attempt. Rolling under a moving train! If that was not suicidal, what was?

Still, Stephen liked Ben, he couldn't help it. He liked Ben a lot. And who else was there to hang around with in his lousy neighborhood? Torch and the Brothers Monk?

Stephen decided that he would still be friends with Ben. They could still be friends without Stephen letting Ben "pull him down," as Nelson had said. Stephen may have only been 14 years old, but he had a strong will. Ben couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to do.

Stephen finally managed to finish his algebra homework, though he doubted that many of the answers were right. He folded up the paper and put it in his wallet. Since he had no desk in his room, he always did his homework on his bed, lying on his side, with the textbook propped on his pillow.

He found himself gazing across the room at the necklace he had given Kristine and that had been so violently returned by Ray Hatcher. It was still hanging from one of the knobs on his top dresser drawer.

He stared at it for a long time, just hanging there. His eyes focused on the smashed penny, then ran up the leather straps.

All at once, he noticed something interesting, something he hadn't noticed this morning or the day before. He sat up on his bed and leaned forward a little bit, peering more closely at the leather straps. He got up and plucked the necklace off the knob.

The knot in the straps looked a lot different than the one he had tied in it for Kristine. He examined it more carefully in the light from the window. Yes, it was different, all right, not the same knot he had tied in it the day before. He had tied the straps in a bow, so that Kristine could easily untie it and make it longer or shorter if she so desired. But now, there was a square knot in it, pulled very tightly.

Stephen tried to untie the knot, but couldn't—he would need something with a sharp point, like an ice pick, to get it started.

Then he noticed something else, something even more interesting. The upper ends of the straps, a few inches on either side of the knot, looked like they had been badly stretched. There were little white cracks that ran along the length of the brown leather on either side of the knot. Stephen was certain that the cracks were not there when he had given the necklace to her.

Stephen held the necklace in the air and dangled it between his fingers, studying the stretch marks. It looked like the kind of thing that would happen if somebody took hold of the necklace and yanked on it hard. Very hard.

He remembered how strong Hatcher's grip had been when Hatcher grabbed him by the shirt. Stephen looked down at his shirt and mimicked Hatcher's action with his own hand. It was almost the same action one would take if one wanted to yank a necklace off of someone else's neck.

Like Kristine's neck, for example.

He slowly sat down on the bed, the necklace entwined in his fingers, lost in thought. It had never occurred to him that Kristine and Hatcher might have had a fight about Stephen giving her the necklace. He had just assumed Hatcher had seen her wearing it, asked her about it, and then had told her she had to take it off.

But it didn't look like things had happened that way, or at least not that simply.

Stephen looked at the necklace again, running his fingers along the cracked leather near the knot. He knew that he couldn't draw any conclusions from some stretched pieces of leather, but it sure seemed Kristine and Hatcher might have had a fight about Stephen giving it to her and that Hatcher might have yanked it off her neck.

That would have hurt her.

And it made him mad.

Stephen sat there for a long time, trying to imagine what might have happened. But then he realized that his imagination would do him no good.

He needed to find Ben.

(End of Book 1 – to be continued)

To purchase Book 2 (and conclusion) of The Wrong Side of the Tracks, please go to  this page on my website.

### A LETTER TO MY READERS

Hello, Dear Reader!

I hope you enjoyed this book. I write in a variety of genres—thrillers & suspense, romance, young adult, and horror. As I say on my website, my goal has always been to write novels that are so engaging and entertaining that you can't stop reading after a couple of pages—"unputdownable" novels. You can read all my book descriptions and read/download free chapters at www.mikewellsbooks.com. Be sure and sign up to my VIP Reader List (free) so you'll receive news about upcoming books and giveaways.

Also, if you enjoyed this book, I would greatly appreciate your help with spreading the word about what I have to offer. Positive word-of-mouth for independent authors like me is crucial. Please pass this book along to your family and friends—give it to anyone who you think would enjoy it.

I always welcome comments about my books—please feel free to give feedback via email (mike@mikewellsbooks.com) or via my website/blog. Book reviews are also appreciated.

Thanks for reading and have a great day!

Mike Wells

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### About the Author

Mike Wells is an American bestselling author of over 20 thriller and suspense novels, including Lust, Money & Murder and Passion, Power & Sin. He is also known for his young adult books, such as The Mysterious Disappearance of Kurt Kramer, The Wrong Side of the Tracks, and Wild Child, which are used by English teachers in high schools and colleges worldwide. Formerly a screenwriter, Wells has a fast-paced, cinematic writing style. His work is often compared to that of the late Sidney Sheldon, with strong and inspiring female heroes, tightly-written scenes, engaging action/dialogue, and numerous plot twists. He currently lives in Europe and has taught in the Creative Writing program at the University of Oxford.

