Huge (3 page)

“Yeah,” I said. I knew the police all right, and what was worse, the police knew me. But if they weren’t looking into the case, then that cleared the way for my investigation, and that was good news. Since it was right there, I took a quick peek down the front of Kathy’s top. It was sweet, real sweet, all soft and cozy and snug, like one of those forts you made out of pillows and quilts and curled up in on stormy nights. But I had to be careful not to stare too long, or things could get awkward.

“Uh, sweetie?” Kathy asked.

“Yeah, Kath?”

“I’m up here,” she said, straightening her back and pouting her lips out at me.

Oh, shit—busted. I had to smooth it over fast. “Sorry, Kath,” I shrugged. “I, uh, I get confused sometimes. Don’t be mad, though, okay? I don’t know any better—I’m just a kid.” I grinned so hard that my cheeks hurt.

Kathy shook her head and laughed.

TWO

Anybody who wasn’t still watching the Smurfs
knew that Darren and the crew had been tagging just about everything within reach of hand, arm, ladder, or rope all summer. They hit bridges and underpasses, stores, billboards, offices, the high school, the police station, parked cars, kiddie pools left out overnight—nothing was safe. Sure, there had always been graffiti before, but this year it seemed worse, bigger, as if they’d suddenly realized that the only way they were ever gonna make a mark in this world was by wrecking other people’s stuff, whether those people deserved it or not. But the crew all lived by the reservoir, and unless they got caught in the act or were stupid enough to hide their kits under their beds, nothing ever happened to them. They were bored, had money, and plenty of time to spend it.

I knew just where to find them.

The town I lived in had only two claims to fame: the Circle and the mall. The Circle was one of the biggest traffic junctions in the state: it looped three different highways together, everybody knew it by name, and it was a major reference point whenever anybody gave
or got directions to anywhere within twenty-five miles of it. It was conveniently located, too, because it was right next to the mall. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever. The latter was “Central Jersey’s Largest Indoor Shopping Mall,” according to the billboards on the highways. I didn’t know if that was true or not, but the parking lot was about a mile across at its longest point, just to give you some idea of how the joint stacked up. Then again, it was the only mall I’d ever been to, so I was in no position to judge. But I was sure about one thing: like every other mall on the planet, it was a magnet for misdirected youth, so I aimed the Cruiser there.

The arcade was
in a small, one-story building of shops and offices right outside the main complex, at arm’s length from the real action, like the kids’ table at Thanksgiving. I parked around the corner, and Thrash and I decided he would take a position near the Cruiser, lay low, and watch the front, in case something went down and I needed backup. At the far rear corner of the mall parking lot there was a trail that ran through the woods to the reservoir, so we were close to the crew’s turf now, and we couldn’t be too careful.

Inside, it was as dark as a boarded-up bomb shelter, and the cold, stiff air filled my snout with a paste of sugar, machine grease, and sweat. The A/C was cranked up high, and long rows of video screens flickered seductively through the dimness. I slapped the chill off the back of my neck, jammed my hands into my pockets, and stopped myself short. I wasn’t here to play games. I was here on business.

Darren was a creature of habit—he always hogged the Defender machine in the far right corner. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the back of his sun-damaged hair, yellow T-shirt, and blue-and-white Jams bouncing from side to side, dodging the alien invasion. I didn’t see any of the other crew members with him, so I slid up behind and watched as he tried to evade the fate an enemy
missile was sending his way. He couldn’t do it. Then again, none of us could.

“Hey, little dude, what’s up,” he said, slapping the fire-button to mount his counterattack.

“Nothing.” I watched for a few minutes in silence, until a group of mutant landers surrounded his ship and ended his game. He was rattled, and I knew it.

“Fu-u-uck!” he yelled, his fist making a loud
plap
against the screen.

A booming “HEY” sounded behind us, and we turned to see the manager’s milky forearm rising above the guitar magazine concealing his face, directing our eyes to the sign above his head:
YOU HIT THE MACHINES YOU HIT THE ROAD
.

“Ah-ight, dude, chill,” Darren called to the magazine cover. “What’s up with that guy?” “D, you know the sign—”

“I fully know the sign, little dude,” Darren cut me off, chuckling. “I’ve like seen it before.” He smiled down at me and rolled his slow brown eyes, after flipping his orange bangs out of the way. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna like obey it and shit.” “Nah, D,” I tried to redirect him, “not
that
sign.” “Dude,” he insisted, “that’s like the only one in here.” Christ. I should’ve known we’d have to two-step before we tangoed. It wasn’t that Darren was the space cadet he pretended to be, though. It was more like he’d been playing dumb so goddamn long that he’d just forgotten he was playing. I wouldn’t be surprised if his parents had to pull him aside, douse him with ice water, shake him by the shoulders, and remind him that he was in the top five of his class at the beginning of each school year. Just so he’d know.

“Nah, dude,” I kept at it, “I’m talking about a different sign.” “Little dude, you’re like totally confounding me, and that’s way harshing on my buzz.” He stopped before feeding another quarter into the slot, and suddenly looked over his right shoulder, toward the
wall. He stayed that way—frozen, staring, fingering his pukka bead choker, a black rubber bracelet rolling down his tanned forearm—for about ten or fifteen seconds before he snapped out of it and shook his head. “Whoa,” he declared.

“So you don’t know anything about
other
kinds of signs”—I took my time saying the rest—“like the signs of old age?” It took him a second to make the connection, but when he did, I saw the panic spread across his face. It was beautiful.

“Let’s talk outside,” he whispered. He tried to put his arm around my shoulder, but I pulled it back. I never let anybody put a hand on me without returning the favor, and that went double for wannabe punk surfers who were balling my sister on the sly.

Darren was moving quickly and made a left out the door. I was following behind him, but something made me check out the couple whispering to each other to the right of the exit, leaning against the Grand Prix racing machine. I hadn’t seen them when I’d come in. The chick’s back was turned to me, but I saw that she had on black Converse high-tops with folded-down white socks, about thirty black rubber anklets dangling over each sock, and a cryptic trail of pen marks zigzagging up the length of her smooth, taut thighs. Her denim cutoffs were faded, frayed, and wedged so deeply into the crack of her ass that about a quarter of each cheek was showing.

I’d seen that
ass thousands of times. Ever since she’d moved to town two years ago, I’d been keeping vigil over it from a distance, and sitting behind her in every class last year had practically tattooed those cheeks onto my brain. Shit, I would’ve known them anywhere, in any light, from any angle, under any conditions, just like I knew they belonged to Stacy Sanders, who’d been an army brat at the military base until her parents broke up the summer before fifth grade and then moved with her mother to Sunnybrook apartments and transferred to our school that September. If Chris Singleton hadn’t moved
to Arizona, I never would’ve gotten my ringside seat by all the action, because his last name came before mine in the alphabet. Good old Chris Singleton; I knew that kid about as well as I knew any of the other dweebs at school, which was hardly at all, but if I ever saw him again, I might just kiss him out of sheer gratitude.

Stacy was wearing a sleeveless, fluorescent-orange T-shirt knotted at the waist so her stomach was showing, four or five bangle and rubber bracelets on each wrist, and two earrings in each of her ears. The extra piercings were new. Her hair was the same, though—a short black bob, shaved in the back, with long slanted bangs that hung over one eye to her chin. She had squinty hazel eyes that tapered at the corners, a short, thin nose, high cheekbones, broad lips, and a wide mouth that jutted out a little too much. Okay, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but then again, she didn’t have to be. She had that
thing
that some chicks just had, and for chicks who had it, it didn’t matter if they also had hunched backs, bald heads, two teeth, one of those withered arms, clubbed feet, or acne all over their bodies like a poison ivy rash. I didn’t know what that thing was or where it came from or what to call it, but I knew it when I saw it and I knew that Stacy had it and that it made me feel like I’d just finished going all-out for half an hour on a Sit ’N Spin.

My head was
a little light and my stomach cramped. But I fought it off. I was a detective now.

The guy said, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, dick cheese?” I shifted my eyes to the tall, angular goon standing next to Stacy, the one whose voice was cracking but sounded like it meant business anyway. I knew who he was—everybody did. He was Ray “the Razor” Tuffalo, last year’s junior-high quarterback, nicknamed for the way he sliced through opposing defenses, a guy who’d punch you in the back of the neck or stick his knee in your gut as casually as most people said “hey” or “what’s up”—especially if you were
younger and smaller and his teammate Tommy Sharpe was around to watch. Yeah, quality guy. He had a flattop crew cut, a pinched face, a snarled mouth with cruddy braces, and was wearing a red Joe Montana football jersey with the sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, probably to show everyone how long his arms were, because there wasn’t a shadow of muscle on him. Nah, the kid was all bone; thick, stupid bone, just like his head.

I was giving up more than a foot and close to sixty pounds. But I held my ground and acted like he wasn’t there.

“Hey, ass-stain, why don’t you draw yourself a photograph, it’ll last longer.”

Jesus Christ. For a second I considered explaining to him that a picture was drawn, while a photo wasn’t, but it seemed like a waste of knowledge, time, and breath, so I turned to go.

“That’s what I thought.” Razor smirked.

No, it wasn’t the healthiest idea, but I turned around to face him.

“Leave him alone, Razor,” Stacy whispered. She was chewing her lip; she looked worried or anxious about something.

I didn’t like any of it. I didn’t like the fact that over the past half-year eighth-, ninth-, and tenth-grade guys had taken to circling Stacy like vultures; I didn’t like the idea of her talking to Razor; and I liked the sight of them together a shitload less. But I had to get outside before Darren forgot he was supposed to be talking to me and wandered off. As I walked to the door, Razor called, “Yeah, peel out, skid mark,” at my back. I clenched my fists, bit my tongue, and let it go. I had bigger fish to fry.

Outside, it was
still sweltering, and I was doing my best to forgive Stacy for hanging with that knob. I couldn’t blame her for not knowing what she wanted, because there was no way she’d know until I worked up the nerve to talk to her. So that was my own goddamn fault. But it was different with Razor. He had one coming,
and sometimes I fell asleep at night dreaming that I’d be the one to oblige him.

Right now, however, I had to get all of that crap off my mind and concentrate on Darren and the case. I took a deep breath, turned the corner, and saw him eyeing the Cruiser. Thrash was tucked away close enough to land a shot if needed, but Darren hadn’t seen him. We had the advantage.

He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You get lost or what?”

“Something like that.”

“No worries.” He shrugged. “It happens.” He turned back to the Cruiser. “By the way, totally bitchin’ ride, little dude.”

“Lay off it,” I warned.

“No way that’s the same bike I stole from you.”

“No, it isn’t.” It wasn’t.

“Thought not. Like check out that banana seat, and those chopper handlebars are
so
rippin’.”

The concept of looking but not touching apparently held no meaning for him.

“Sting-Ray?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Full-on classic, my man.” He nodded back. “Where’d you pick it up? They go for like major ducats.”

“I didn’t pick it up. I built it.”

Darren pulled his head back and stared at me skeptically. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Get the fuck outta here. Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He seemed to be having trouble processing the information, but it was true. I’d built the Cruiser this past spring out of spare parts from the junkyard. I got some of the money from trading in the bike he’d stolen from me, because I’d promised myself I wouldn’t ride the damn thing ever again after that, and I hadn’t.