The Juvie Three (14 page)

I should just take off. Like Jumbo cares if I come to his show or not.

With a sigh of resignation, he pushes his way to the emergency exit and opens the heavy door. No alarm sounds. He's not surprised. Pus Groove is so dilapidated it's amazing the roof stays on.

“Gecko!” he hisses. “Get in here!”

The fourteen-year-old slinks down the alley, and Terence hustles him inside.

“Real smooth, man!” Terence says sarcastically.

Gecko is defensive. “What can
I
do if the guy cards me?”

Terence regards him pityingly. “He carded you because you stood there with your stupid puppy eyes saying, ‘Please let me in.' You've got to show some attitude.” No wonder Gecko worships Douglas Healy. The kid is a newborn. He couldn't have lasted much longer in juvie.

As they descend the tunnel-like staircase, the roar of the music swells. Terence winces in true pain. He's got nothing against volume, but in this case that's all there is. Haven't these idiots ever heard of hip-hop?

“I hope Arjay's band is better than this!” Gecko shouts in his ear.

Fat chance.

Downstairs is a crush of dancing, gyrating people who don't seem to notice how pathetic the music is, or don't care.

The Keelhaulers clatter to a merciful end, and there's blessed quiet for a few seconds until a deejay puts on something even worse.

Terence takes advantage of the migration toward the bar and bathroom to grab Gecko and worm their way up front. No point in supporting Arjay if Arjay can't see them there, supporting him.

All at once, Gecko is pulling on his sleeve.

“Cut it out, man! You trying to get us bounced?”

“Terence—look!”

It's Casey Wagner, the doom-crier from their therapy group. He's surprised to see her at first, but on second thought it makes sense. This is her kind of place—her music, and her crowd, her Disney World version of living dangerously.

“We can't let her see us!” Gecko hisses. “If she mentions it at group, Avery might try to get in touch with Healy—and you know where that leads!”

Terence regards him in amusement. “Fine, we'll lay low. But how's she supposed to overlook that two-hundred-sixty-pound clodhopper when Brown Day hits the spotlight?”

“We could go backstage and warn him!” Gecko persists. “Maybe he'll call off the show!”

Terence snorts. He's not as freaked as the others about being exposed. When it all falls apart, he intends to run away. It's not rocket science. “Lighten up, Gecko. This is the guy's dream—to play bad music in a toilet. Whatever happens, happens.”

If Gecko wants to argue, he's too late. First the lights are cut, plunging the club into darkness. Next a guitar chord sounds so loud, so raw, that Terence can feel his cuticles shrinking back into his fingers. Then the lights blaze on, and the onslaught of This Page Cannot Be Displayed is unleashed on the patrons of Pus Groove.

Terence isn't a fan of this kind of music, but he can tell from the reaction of the audience around him that This Page is making a big impression. From the very first note, the crowd has come alive, bouncing like pogo-stickers minus the hardware.

Rat Boy, the singer, is darting around the stage like a bat with faulty sonar. Voodoo is just a blur at the drums. The no-name bassist is kicking like a chorus girl while delivering background chords like depth charges.

But all eyes are on Arjay Moran. He's just standing there, really, not strutting like the others, barely moving. But the sheer size of him, and his intense concentration—it's obvious that his presence and sound are something new and special. It's impressive, and Terence doesn't impress easily.

Over the assault of pure punk, he can hear the words “new guitarist” shouted from mouth to mouth.

“Who
is
that?”

“Wasn't he with E Coli before this?”

“Naw, that guy was half the size of him!”

“Maybe he's from the West Coast!”

“Forget the West Coast!” Terence bellows into the fray of speculation. “I'll tell you who that is—
that's my dog
!”

As the show goes on, Arjay's performance becomes more daring, more creative, and more spectacular. By the time Rat Boy introduces the band, the guitarist he calls Arjay receives an ovation that literally brings the house down. Plaster drifts from the ceiling as roaring fans stamp the floor and pound the walls.

The set goes on longer than expected because there are four encores. There'd be more, but This Page has run out of material. The stage is doused with airborne drinks as the band departs—the ultimate tribute.

One amplifier short-circuits in a shower of beer and sparks. There's a delay before the next band can come on. The deejay fills the silence with more ghastly noise.

Gecko is glowing with excitement as he wheels on Terence. “He's really good!”

Terence nods grudgingly. “If he played decent music, he could be a star. Let's go backstage and say hey.”

A few seconds later, struggling to make progress through the sea of fans, they find themselves face-to-face with Casey.

“Omigod, you guys! Why didn't you tell me?”

Terence tries to play it down. “It's no biggie, girl. Everybody's got a hobby.”

“Are you kidding me? I'm down here every weekend—
all
these people are! We have a good time, but you know what
really
keeps us coming back? The thought that one day maybe we're going to hear something different! Something revolutionary! An
artist
! I can't believe he's on parole!”

Gecko bristles. “He's not on parole!” Technically, the three of them are still in custody. Parole is something they can only dream about.

“I mean whatever you guys are on. They must ride you pretty hard. And instead of just surviving, Arjay finds a way to develop a great talent. How does he do it?”

“He's got it going on,” Terence acknowledges with a yawn.

“No, I mean how does he
actually
do it?” Casey persists. “I want to talk to him, find out about his creative process.”

“We'll let him know you're looking for him,” Terence drawls, accidentally on purpose allowing the flow of bodies to separate them.

The tiny backstage area doubles as an office and storage locker. It's bedlam, with This Page fresh from their set, and the headliners, who are waiting for the sizzling amp to be replaced so they can go on.

A slick-haired thirtysomething in a black turtle-neck is schmoozing Arjay and his bandmates.

“It's never too early to think about hooking up with a good manager. If we can get you seen by the right people, a recording contract is a slam dunk—”

“Dog!” calls Terence from the doorway.

Arjay looks up and grins at them. “I saw you guys out there. You should have told me you were coming. I could have got you in free.”

Terence shrugs. “Maybe you can score us a refund.”

Rat Boy regards Arjay sharply. “Are we boring you, man? We're talking about our future here!”

“We played one set,” Arjay reminds him. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

To Gecko and Terence, his reluctance is easy to understand. Convicts can't sign recording contracts, and they certainly can't go on tour.

Voodoo tries to smooth things over. “Guitarists. Very high-strung.”

The business conversation continues with the original band members, and Arjay goes over to join his roommates.

“You were awesome,” Gecko enthuses.

“Thanks. It means a lot that you guys showed up. I really wasn't expecting it. And don't worry about all this manager talk. I won't let it get out of hand.”

“We might have another problem,” Terence informs him. “You know that chick Casey from group?”

Arjay nods. “I saw her in the audience. I've met her here before. She's into this whole scene.”

“Well, now she's your number one fan,” Terence continues. “And she's got a mouth on her.”

“Gotcha.” Arjay looks grim. “She knows we're not supposed to be here, but then again, neither is she. She didn't rat me out last time, but just to be safe, we'd better remind her not to mention anything around Avery.”

“
Remind
isn't the word I was thinking of,” Terence says darkly.

“What else can we do?” asks Gecko. “We have no control over what she says or doesn't say.”

“We can make sure she's so scared of us that she'll be good and careful not to spill the beans about your secret rock star life.”

Gecko is wide-eyed. “You mean just threaten her, right? We wouldn't actually do anything.”

Terence is growing impatient. “When you threaten, you have to be ready to do something. That's where your whole cred comes from! It's being willing to do something that means you won't have to do it.”

“But what if you
do
have to do it?”

“Calm down,” Arjay soothes. “We won't see her until next Thursday. Tonight will be ancient history by then.”

“In your dreams,” Terence sneers. “You're an artist. She wants to frame your used underwear and hang it on her wall.”

Sure enough, as they leave Pus Groove via the stage door in the alley, there's Casey, holding up a streetlamp, waiting for them.

She rushes up to Arjay. “Wow! Where do I even start? There's so much I want to ask you!”

Terence steps forward. “Listen, Casey, can I talk to you for a second—”

Arjay puts an iron grip on his shoulder and moves him bodily out of the way.

Terence glares at him. “What are you doing, man? We've got to make sure she understands how it is!”

“I've got it covered,” Arjay assures him. He steers Casey away from his roommates and deeper into the alley, where they can have some privacy.

Casey is gushing. “When I saw you here before, I figured it was just a one-time thing! What kind of group home lets you come and go as you please? Join a band? Go to rehearsals and midnight shows?”

In that moment, Arjay realizes that Terence is right. She must be silenced. But he can't see himself following the Florian method. Without even making a conscious decision, he leans forward and presses his lips against hers.

For a second, Casey is shocked. Soon, though, she is kissing him back with real enthusiasm.

From the end of the alley, Terence and Gecko watch in bemused amazement. Terence puts an arm around the smaller boy's shoulders.

“That's another way to plug up a big mouth.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Gecko is signing the Declaration of Independence. Not as himself—for the purposes of this reenact-ment, he's William Floyd. He's already been called up as Matthew Thornton. There aren't enough students in fourth-period history to cover all fifty-six signers, so most of them have to double up.

Classmates look over his shoulder as he labors to add eighteenth-century flourishes to the signature, using the unfamiliar fountain pen. Snapple and Chex Mix are being served on the teacher's desk. The girl portraying Ben Franklin is trying to peer through her tiny glasses without going cross-eyed. It isn't exactly a party, but the mood is light, celebratory.

Suddenly, there's dead silence.

Mrs. Garfinkle is in the doorway. Normally, the office summons students by PA or sends a messenger. What's so important that the guidance counselor has to come personally?

Gecko looks up from the Declaration to find all eyes on him. It never takes much for the students of Alma K. Walker to remember who the Social Services kid is.

“Mr. Fosse.” The counselor beckons.

He walks down the hall behind her, nervous, but also vaguely miffed at missing the rest of the signing. He's ushered through the outer office into a small conference room. There, seated at the table, is, of all people, Deputy Chief Delancey of the NYPD, munching loudly on a juicy pear.

“Mmm—Gecko. Thanks for coming down. Close the door and have a seat.”

Gecko does as he's told, totally at sea. What would the second-in-command of the largest police force in the country want with him?

“How did you find me?” he asks.

The man slurps at his pear. “We know your school, and there's only one Graham who goes by Gecko. Wasn't hard. I'm a cop. That's what we do.” He takes another bite and chews noisily. “Funny thing. Roxie thinks you're Gecko Smith. But we know better than that, don't we, Fosse?”

Gecko's insides are ice. He can only nod dumbly. He's spent so much time anticipating the moment when everything falls apart, yet he's never had a sense of what that moment might look like. Is this it—a bald, fruit-slurping cop slapping the cuffs on in a room built for parent-teacher conferences? Are Healy's three teens headed back to juvie today?

Amazingly, he feels very little pity for himself. He's the one who brought the deputy chief's fateful attention down on them. This is one hundred percent Gecko's fault.

“Fact is, Gecko, I like you. When I saw you looking around that upper-crust aircraft carrier on Sunday, I recognized myself forty years ago—a regular chump getting his first taste of how the other half lives. But Augie Fitzner—
he
doesn't like you. Or maybe he does, but not for his daughter.” He pats a file folder on the table in front of him. “And I haven't even told him the good stuff yet—criminal record, halfway house. Quite a rap sheet for a kid your age.”

Gecko is completely cowed. He stares at the deputy chief as if he's watching his own executioner sharpening his ax.

“I see you're a man of few words. I like that about you too.” He holds out a paper bag. “Pear?”

Gecko shakes his head, silently pleading:
Get on with it
—
arrest me! Anything's better than being played like a fish on a hook!

“So,” Delancey continues, “be a good Joe and keep away from Roxie, will you?”