Huge (4 page)

“Shee-it, mini man, you got some radical skills. You’re like a bike-building black belt—waa-saah,” Darren yelped, and threw what I guessed were karate chops at the air. When he pulled himself back together, he said, “Congrats, little dude, your ride’s rocking, you’re styling and smiling.”

He raised his hand for a high five and I was able to count very slowly to four before he put it down again. I didn’t need a poser like him to tell me the Cruiser was styling, because I already knew it. Besides, he hadn’t said anything about the sixteen-inch front wheel and the larger, twenty-inch back wheel, which gave it that tricked-out look, the whitewall tires, the chrome front and back fenders, the high-gloss blood-red paint job, or the original crossbar stick shift that everybody knew had been outlawed like more than a decade ago. So how was I supposed to feel complimented when he’d overlooked most of the coolest parts?

“C’mon, Scrappy Doo,” Darren said, tilting his head to the side, “you can’t go on being all sore at me forever. I said I was sorry when I gave the other one back, remember?”

Yeah, I remembered all right. But he didn’t say he was sorry, not to me anyway, so I could stay sore as long as I damn well felt like it.

“Besides,” he went on, “I wouldn’t have lifted it if I knew you were Neecey’s little bro.”

That was such bullshit and we both knew it, but he couldn’t lay off it; he just had to bring it up. That’s why things would always be tense between Darren and me, a kind of frozen war.

“So what’s she up to tonight?” he asked, fishing around in his pockets.

“Dude, the sign.” I thought it best to remind him of the business at hand, because if Darren got talking, we could grow old together, and there was nothing I wanted less.

“Yea-ahp,” he gulped, sparking a roach and nodding his head. He held his breath and started to offer it to me, but then seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled it back. I wouldn’t have taken it
anyway. First of all, people said pot stunted your growth, and at fifty-six inches tall and barely ninety pounds with a full head of hair and a pair of work boots on, I took that kind of warning very seriously. Second of all, I wasn’t crazy about eggs, so I didn’t want my brain turning into one—fried, scrambled, or otherwise. Darren exhaled and took another hit before speaking.

“Fucking cops came to my house on Sunday morning to ask me about it. My pops freaked.”

“So?”

“So? Dude, he almost grounded me.”

I could see it was serious.

“He was talking much smack about canceling his trip with my mom this week, because he couldn’t like trust me. As if. He chilled, though.” Darren paused, then went on, “What do you know about it?”

I shrugged.

“You see, dude, you see”—he pointed at me and then at his forehead, the first rush of weed kicking in—
“you’re
prob’ly the one who sicced the cops on me, ’cause you’re still all pissed and shit.”

He was getting tight already; I had to cut him off before the idea got hold of him, or he wouldn’t let it go.

“You got it all wrong, D. I know you didn’t do it,” I conned him. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s right,” he agreed. “That’s what I told the fucking cops.” He paused, swimming between thoughts. “How’d you know I didn’t do it?”

“Your signature.”

“Aw-haw-haw, mee-yan,” he laughed, smoke twisting out of his grinning maw, “you know my signature? That’s sooo cool.”

“Yeah,” I said, playing to his vanity, the weakness of every artist, “and yours wasn’t there.”

“But that don’t mean shit, little dude.” He stubbed the roach out on the bottom of his flip-flop and returned it to his pocket. “What?” he asked.

“You said it didn’t mean shit that your signature wasn’t there.” Keeping Darren focused was always a little more trouble than it was worth.

“Yeah.” He remembered. “I tag lots of things without signing.”

“Like what?”

He started to plateau and looked like he wanted to talk. His eyes were small and glossy. A devilish smile darkened his lips. “Can you keep a secret, dude?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t hit that sign because I rounded up most of the crew on Saturday night and tagged the church.”

“The church?” That surprised me, not because I went to church, but because I hadn’t heard.

“Yeah, dude.” He looked around before he continued, whispering, “You know Sticky, right?”

I nodded. Sticky was the oldest of his crew, a dark-haired beanpole with a problem resisting five-finger discounts, even though his family was probably the richest around.

“Well, Sticky said his little bro told him that Father Paul was touching him way up on the thighs and patting him on the butt and shit for like the past two months. So we loaded up, went down there, and painted ‘pervert’ and ‘molester’ and ‘homo’ all over the church wall and rectory. Full-on payback. I heard the people at the seven o’clock Mass the next morning were all like wigging and shit, but they painted over it before the nine and told everyone to keep it quiet.”

“No shit?” That explained why I hadn’t heard about it, that and the fact that I’d taken the Cruiser down the Shore yesterday for some R and R and hadn’t been around. But everybody knew Father Paul was the kind of priest whose hands needed something more than hymnals and the Holy Eucharist to keep them busy, and if I didn’t already know Darren and his buds, even I would have been impressed by the boldness of the deed.

“No shit,” he boasted, “but we didn’t sign that.”

Yeah, I could see why not—there’d be hell to pay.

“All right,” I said. “But if you didn’t hit the sign at the retirement home, and both of us know you didn’t, then who did?” I made sure to speak slowly so he wouldn’t get lost.

“If the cops couldn’t get anything out of me, little dude, what makes you think you can?”

“Dude, my grandmother?”

“Shit, yeah.” He looked down and then away, as if he’d just forgotten or remembered something. For him there probably wasn’t much difference. “That’s right. Shit. So you’re like totally vengeful or what?”

“Let’s just say I’m curious to know who’s responsible.”

Darren flipped his hair back and wiped his hands down the front of his T-shirt as he considered for a moment. “Sorry, no dice, little dude.” He tried to appear decided, but I could tell he was wavering.

“I just want to know who did it, D,” I reassured him. “I promise I won’t—”

“Look, Genie,” he interrupted. “It’s complicated. It’s like totally fucked up.” He stopped short, like everyone with a big mouth, struggling not to say more. “Even if I knew who did it, and I’m totally not saying I do, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s too bogus a deal for a little dude. You could wind up getting majorly jawed or whatever, so just lay off it.”

“The name’s Huge,” I corrected him, but he was definitely worried about something because he’d never called me by name before.

“Huge?” He laughed. “That’s a righteous handle, bro.”

“What? You don’t think I can back it up or something?” As if I fucking cared what he thought.

“No, dude, it ain’t like that,” he retreated. “Your sis made me promise to keep an eye out for you is all—”

That bitch. She was always butting into my business and I was getting sick of it. I didn’t hear the middle part of what he said.

“—sorry about your grandma, though. Earnestly. I’m like bumming, too, but no dice.” He shrugged his shoulders and reached up for his choker as he turned to go. But instead of going, he stopped and turned back to me. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, little dude, the hit on the old folks’ home was wank anyway. Total amateur bullshit.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was saying or why the hell he was saying it, but I was interested to hear more.

“Wank?” I asked.

“Yeah, man, tag talk—you know, pro lingo?”

“But what is it?”

“Dude, don’t tell me you don’t know what ‘wank’ is.”

I shook my head.

Darren sighed. “It’s a hit with no spray, no stencils, no style, no signature, just paint can, brush, fucked-up letters and lines and shit. That, my man, is
wank.”

I had the feeling he meant something more, so I pressed further. “But why’s it called wank?”

“Du-uu-ude,” he groaned, almost in disbelief. “Wank, you know?” He pumped his fist rapidly back and forth in front of his crotch. “Wank”—he drove it home—“
hand
painted,
hand
job? It’s a fucking hand job, dude. Like I said, total amateur bullshit.”

“Oh,” I said. But Darren wasn’t paying attention, because he was inspecting the Cruiser again, closely this time.

“Dude, is that—”

Oh, shit, Thrash’s cover was blown.

He turned to me gravely and said, “Little dude, word of advice. That Ninja Turtle in your backpack? It’s time to ditch it.”

“He’s
a frog”
What a fucking moron. Thrash didn’t look anything like a Ninja Turtle.

“Whatever. Ditch it. Junior high is seriously rough, bro. You want everybody calling you a fag?”

Instantly, I was hot. I stepped forward and leaned toward him,
sticking my chest out, cocking my elbows back near my sides, rolling my fingers into fists. I was measuring him and I wanted him to know it. I’d learned all about prejudice in social studies; it was all the same, and I wasn’t gonna take it. First they called you names, then they made you use separate bathrooms, and then they crammed you into the bottom of a slave ship headed for the concentration camp. I’d be damned if that happened on my watch.

“So what if they call me a fag?” I growled.

“Dude, steady, okay? I’m just trying to help you out.”

“And you think calling me a fag helps?”

“Like ease off, all right? You know I wasn’t saying that. Shit, dude, I’m on your side.”

“Then our team’s gonna lose.”

“Whatever,” Darren sighed, shaking his head. He took a few steps but turned back again. “Why you gotta be so fucking strange?” he asked, and walked off.

Shit, even if I knew the answer, I wouldn’t tell
him
.

THREE

The skies were darker, angrier as I drove the Cruiser
along the abandoned railroad tracks skirting the athletic fields behind the junior high. I’d dropped Thrash off so he could sort through what we’d gathered so far and work on a list of suspects. We knew we were looking for someone a little older, maybe someone who was linked to Darren in some way. Plus, we knew we were looking for someone who was not only stupid enough to risk exposure by hand-painting
retarted
on a sign next to a busy highway, but also stupid enough to misspell it. No, probably not a master criminal, but this was the suburbs, so it could be just about anyone.

That’s why I left it to Thrash. He never said too much, but he was always thinking, figuring things out. I’d never been sure why he was always so pensive. But there was a lot going on inside that little green body of his that I didn’t understand, and when I thought about it, I probably didn’t want to.
When my first
counselor gave him to me a couple of months into third grade, my sessions were still voluntary, and she said it was to help me actualize, because I was too alone and locked up inside myself. I didn’t have a single friend, and she said that not being able to actualize or express what I was feeling to anyone was probably what was causing me to go all ballistic from time to time. So she handed me this dorky-looking frog and told me to take him home and try to relate to him in the way that came most naturally. I took it as the insult and attempt to baby me that it was, so I beat the shit out of him. After two days, mom had to Krazy Glue one of his eyes back on. When I saw my counselor the following week, she could tell I’d been wailing on him, but she didn’t mention it right off. Instead, she asked me if I’d given him a name. I said, Yeah, Thrash, because that’s what I did to him; it was the way of relating that seemed most appropriate. She let that slide, too, but pointed out that
thrash
was a verb, and that I had this tendency to name things after verbs, which was a symptom of my deeper problem with actualization.

That was the first time I’d thought she wasn’t just dropping butt-bombs on me, because I used to wonder if there was a connection between the way my brain worked and what I said, or what I didn’t say, because I didn’t say much. Shit, I barely talked at all, except for when I was already too far gone and laying into somebody. But my mind was always running; it was like my thoughts kept racing and spinning but they couldn’t figure out where to go or what to do. So I started listening to her a bit more after that, and when she said Thrash might be good for something other than an excuse for violence, I decided to give him a try.

I had to give it to her; she was right on that, too. Thrash and I hit it off, and I started telling him things, about what I was thinking or feeling, or how I was so sick with rage all the time, and pretty soon he started answering me back. Okay, I knew he wasn’t actually answering me back; he couldn’t, he was a stuffed animal you could buy at a toy store for less than ten bucks. But when I told him things, I
started to hear all these new ideas inside my head, and they came to me in a voice different from my own—kind of slow and croaky, like that kid made in
The Shining
, only deeper—so I gave Thrash credit for them. I didn’t know where he got his ideas or why I was the only one who could hear them or why almost everything he said was so fucking twisted. Then again, I didn’t really care, because after I got used to talking to him, I realized that having him around settled me down some and helped me to think.