The Juvie Three (22 page)

“Let me finish,” Ms. Vaughn continues. “By law, you
could
be shut down. But in view of all the remarkable progress you've made with these boys, I'm not going to do that.”

Gecko's head snaps up. “You're not?”

“Frankly,” the social worker tells them, “if I didn't see it with my own eyes, I never would have believed that anyone could turn these three into decent productive teenagers. Vigilance and supervision—that's the key. You never took your eyes off them for a second. Congratulations, Mr. Healy. I underestimated you.”

His temper tantrum barely cooled, the group leader can only stare at her, speechless.

“However,” she goes on, “this trophy should be a warning to you. I've been a social worker for twenty years, and absolutely
nothing
gets by me. I can take a look around this apartment and know everything that's been going on in your lives. You have no secrets from me….”

As she rambles on about herself being all-knowing and all-seeing, Gecko, Arjay, and Terence struggle mightily not to snicker. Ms. Vaughn may be able to detect dust bunnies the size of microdots, but she doesn't have a clue that the man running her halfway house has spent several weeks hospitalized with amnesia, leaving his charges to fend for themselves. They can only imagine what articles and subsections of the Uniform Code of Alternative Living Arrangements for Youth Offenders they've been violating minute by minute.

Yet they keep their thoughts to themselves. Even Terence manages to fight down the impulse to mouth off. They stay focused on the big picture. Survival against all odds. Very sweet.

They thank the social worker and escort her not only to the door, but down the stairs and right into a taxi, just to make sure she's really gone. At that, she refuses to let the cabbie drive away until she sees the bowling trophy in the garbage. A stickler right to the very end.

Healy lets out a long breath. “Well, guys, we did it.
You
did it, really. Because it never could have happened if you hadn't kept up with school, and community service, and therapy.”

“Freaky,” Terence agrees. “Doing the right thing turns out to be the right thing. I must be bugging.”

As they head back upstairs, they find Mrs. Liebowitz waiting for them on the fourth-floor landing.

“It's good to see you, Mr. Healy. I guess my suspicions that something might have happened to you were unfounded.”

Healy beams at her. “I'm fine, Mrs. Liebowitz.” Having passed the Ms. Vaughn test, he isn't overly concerned with the building snoop. “In fact, I've never felt better.”

As soon as he says it, he realizes that it's true. The flood of returning recollection out on the fire escape was violent to the point of pain, like having his brain pumped full of helium. But since then, his recovery has been peaceful and complete. He's no longer consciously aware of memories coming back to him. Now he simply reaches for them and they're there. It seems like the ultimate luxury after so many weeks when he would try to look back and find only empty space.

The one thing that haunts him is what might have happened if the fight with DeAndre's crew hadn't returned him to the fire escape. Would he still be in that awful fog? Yes, Gecko, Arjay, and Terence caused his original accident. But they never gave up on him when a thousand other kids in their place would have taken off. If he didn't know it before, he knows it now: he picked exactly the right three boys.

“I almost forgot.” Mrs. Liebowitz hands Arjay a large manila envelope. “This came for you today. It wouldn't fit in your mail slot, and I didn't think you'd want to be disturbed when you were entertaining such an important visitor.” She frowns. “It looks like a management contract for a professional musician, but how could that be? How would someone in a halfway house have the freedom to join a rock group?”

Healy snatches the package from Arjay and herds the boys inside apartment 4B. “Thanks, Mrs. Liebowitz. I'll take care of it.”

She watches the door close after them. “The letter says you're very good.…”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Gecko Fosse is once more behind the wheel of an Infiniti M45—a red one this time. No, black. With a spoiler on the back. And a jet engine strapped onto the roof. He's even taken up his old hobby again—not thinking. He's still great at it. He's barely aware of the fact that he's actually not in any car, but sitting in group therapy, and that he isn't likely to find himself behind the wheel of a motor vehicle for a good long time.

But of course, Gecko's number one topic for not thinking is
her.
And not thinking about her only makes him think about her more.

Get over it! he berates himself. Do you have any idea how lucky you are? Healy's okay; you're not going back to Atchison. One girlfriend is a small price to pay for all that!

This is no ordinary therapy session—it's the final one. Dr. Avery has decided that the group has come as far as she can take them, and it's time to move on. They're having a farewell pizza party. Gecko isn't hungry.

Dr. Avery, who's still a knockout even while scrubbing tomato sauce off her chin, is emotional about this milestone. “I'm so proud of all of you. You've made such remarkable progress.”

Terence is unimpressed. “You're the only one who's graduating, Doc. Social Services says we still have to do therapy. And now we've got to break in a whole new shrink.”

Drew Roddenbury nods sadly. “The record companies won't cut me loose either. I'm still a threat to download another song.”

“I'm a little worried about
you
, Gecko,” Dr. Avery admits with a frown. “You've been gloomy and withdrawn for weeks.”

I'm not having this conversation, Gecko tells himself firmly. Not on the last day of group. “It's just—you know—winter blahs.”

The therapist smiles understandingly. “Winter blahs isn't a real diagnosis. You should be happy. The six months are almost over. Mr. Healy tells me your mom will be visiting in a couple of weeks.”

Gecko nods without much enthusiasm. He's pleasantly surprised that she's able to juggle her three jobs and make the trip. But he has mixed feelings about it. Healy bent the rules and let him talk with her when she called to confirm that she'd be coming. Four and a half of the five minutes he was on the phone with her were spent lamenting Reuben's terrible fate in prison.

I know Reuben's got it rough, Mom, but can't something be just about me?

Arjay has enough enthusiasm for all three of them. “March eighteenth,” he confirms brightly. “My folks are making a weekend of it, staying in a hotel.”

He's excited almost to the point of giddiness. It's pretty comical, but no amount of relentless teasing from Terence can spoil Arjay's mood. To him, this visit is the light at the end of the tunnel, the first baby step of his return to the human race.

“My parents are giving it a pass,” Terence puts in blandly. “My old man can't get away. He's got a lot of responsibility spreading misery and hearing loss around the citizens of Southside Chicago. It'd be like Santa Claus trying to take Christmas Eve off.”

Dr. Avery regards him in sympathy. “It's all fine as long as you're fine with it.”

“Better than fine. Family lets you down, man. Big picture—find some dogs who've got your back.”

“That's the kind of thinking that nearly got us killed,” Arjay points out.

“The thinking wasn't the problem,” Terence insists. “I just had the wrong dogs, that's all. Right now, I got all the crew I need—and that includes Healy.”

For once, there's perfect agreement among the trio. All three have made mistakes and suffered misfortunes. But the best thing that's happened to any of them is Douglas Healy.

Afterward, they're riding the elevator down to the lobby when Casey Wagner sidles up to Arjay. “The word downtown is This Page scored a recording deal.”

Arjay nods. “I heard that too.”

She probes further. “You should be celebrating.”

“Not me. I quit four months ago. You were right. A guy in my situation can't be in a band.”

She nods wanly, and the blue spikes of her hair tickle the bottom of his chin. “The best ones always burn out, or OD, or end up in trouble with the law.
No future
—that's what Johnny Rotten said.” She takes a folded piece of paper and jams it into his palm.

“What's this?”

“My phone number. Use it.” The elevator door opens, and she rushes off.

Arjay holds her note over the trash basket, then thinks better of it and stuffs it in his pocket. “No future” was once a perfect descriptor for him. Not anymore.

Healy collects them in the lobby and hands Terence a piece of paper. “This notice came from your school today. It says you have eleven overdue library books.”

Terence crumples it up and tosses it in the garbage. “Yeah, I'm real scared. That librarian is a joke. She just stands there and lets people jack her stuff!”

Arjay rescues the form and smooths it open. “That's why they call it a
lending
library,” he explains patiently. “You're supposed to return what you borrow.”

“Or what?” Terence scoffs. “Or nothing, man. If I ran a business like that, I'd be broke in a week.”

Healy takes the notice back from Arjay. “I'm just impressed that you're reading.”

“I'm a bookworm, all right,” Terence agrees. “Hard-core. Ask me anything. Mockingbirds, the works.”

“What's the food for, Mr. Healy?” Gecko puts in, indicating the plastic deli bag the group leader is carrying.

Healy passes out sandwiches. “Corned beef on rye from Shapiro's—best in the city. Dinner is on the run tonight. We've got an appointment. The new community service came through.”

“Garbage picking, round two?” Terence queries. “That'll be fun when it's twenty below.”

“We caught a break,” the group leader assures them. “All indoor work. There's an old building at Bleecker and Bowery that the city's turning into a homeless shelter. How's your wrist action, Terence? You three are signed up as painters.”

There's some good-natured grumbling. Between school and therapy, they've been on the go for twelve hours now.

Healy refuses to knuckle under to the complaining. “Boo-hoo. Like you've never been tired before. Besides, it could be fun. They've got something like four hundred kids working on this project—community service, AmeriCorps, church and school groups, you name it.”

The crabbing increases a subway ride later when they reach their destination. The building is a total wreck—crumbling plaster, broken stairs, dry rot, and dust, dust, dust.

“Are you sure four hundred of us are going to be enough?” Arjay wonders.

“It'll take at least that many to keep the ceiling from falling on our heads,” Gecko adds sourly.

“I got a medical issue,” puts in Terence. “Allergies, man.”

“I know,” Healy sympathizes. “You're allergic to work. Come on—I want you all to do this. It'll be good for you.”

The complaining stops, even from Terence. Healy wants this, and he has the right to expect it after what he's done for them, and everything he's been through. Fair enough.

The group leader is right about the size of the crew. The meeting room is packed belly to belly with people, mostly teenagers. It's a chaotic scene—so many people clumsily stepping into painter's coveralls at the same moment, tripping over one another. Each worker is issued a piece of sandpaper and an air-filter mask.

Arjay frowns. “What's the mask for?”

That becomes apparent five minutes after they begin sanding the peeling walls. A dense cloud of dust hangs in the air like a fog, stinging their eyes and coating everything like a layer of volcanic ash.

“Man, there's always a cop around when it comes to busting people,” Terence chokes. “But when four hundred kids are getting black lung disease, it's like, ‘Health code? What health code?'”

“At least we're here because we've got no choice,” Gecko mutters, barely able to make out the scrubbing action of his hand on the wall two feet in front of him. “What kind of an idiot actually
volunteers
for this torture?”

“A word of advice,” comes a voice from behind. “Get a grip.”

He wheels abruptly enough to pop the tendons in his neck. At first she's just a silhouette in the swirling haze of airborne powder, but he'd know that voice anywhere. Who volunteers for torture? Somebody who volunteers for everything. There's only one Roxanne—one in a million.

The rubber band holding his mask in place snaps on the right side. It's from the sheer size of his smile.

A millionaire, a deputy police chief, and the entire Department of Juvenile Corrections may be able to control your life. But none of them can prevent a lightning strike.

GORDON KORMAN
is the author of more than seventy popular young adult and middle grade novels, including
The Juvie Three
;
Schooled
;
Born to Rock
;
Son of the Mob
;
Son of the Mob: Hollywood Hustle
;
Jake, Reinvented
;
No More Dead Dogs
; and
The 6th Grade Nickname Game
.

Gordon lives with his family on Long Island, New York. Visit his Web site at
www.gordonkorman.com
.