The Juvie Three (6 page)

Gecko takes an instinctive step in his direction and freezes.
What am I doing? To Diego, I'm scarier than the kid who's picking on him.

A mean-spirited bullying half-wit is still preferable to a convicted felon. Besides, it's not as if he and Diego are friends.

Anyway, the standoff defuses itself when Goliath is distracted by a table of cheering teammates. Gecko sets his own tray down at a spot by the window. It seems unfair that a total jerk has friends and he doesn't. Not that Gecko isn't grateful to be out of Atchison, but Healy's whole setup is like a guarantee against any kind of social life.

The food at Walker is pretty decent—compared to juvie, at least—but he can never seem to work up much of an appetite. He pushes his Salisbury steak away and peers through the dirty glass at the street scene outside.

To his surprise, he finds himself looking at Terence Florian. His roommate is on the opposite sidewalk, deep in conversation with a tough-looking kid Gecko has seen around school. Gecko frowns. The problem isn't Terence's choice of company; it's his location. Healy's trio is barred from venturing off campus during school hours. With the halfway house still on probation, any violation could shut it down.

I'm not going back to jail because of that idiot!

Lunch forgotten, he's out of the cafeteria, through the double doors, and darting past honking taxis.

Terence sees him coming. “Step off, dog. Private meeting.”

“I'm not your dog!” Gecko hisses. “You know the rules—get back inside!”

DeAndre scowls over his falafel at the newcomer. “Who's your nanny?”

“Total stranger.” Terence rakes Gecko with a severe gaze. “Right?”

Gecko doesn't budge. “Whatever you say—so long as you're saying it
inside.
”

DeAndre takes a bite of his lunch. “I'll give you some time to get straight with the little yo.” He begins an unhurried crossing of the street back toward school, forcing cars and buses to go around him.

Terence wheels on Gecko, furious. “You mess with my business again, I will
end
you!”

“You don't
have
a business!” Gecko fires back under tight control. “You have school, garbage picking, and therapy! That's your life!”

“You don't know squat about me!” Terence seethes.

“I know
everything
about you, man! My brother attracted puffed-up gangster wannabes like a magnet!”

“You want to waste your time being a good little worker ant, that's your dead end. Me, I've got plans.”

Gecko looks him in the eye. “Not when your plans can get me locked up.”

They're squared off, ready to do battle, when the supermarket door slides open, and Douglas Healy steps out behind two big bags of groceries.

Terence ducks into a storefront, but Gecko is fixed there like a butterfly on a pin.

“Gecko?” Plum tomatoes bounce from the bags as the group leader races up. “What are you doing, kid? You're not supposed to be here!”

“I—I know—” It never occurs to Gecko to explain himself—that he only left to bring Terence back in. The code of no ratting may belong to the Reubens and Terences of the world, but he can't bring himself to break it. “I messed up.”

To his surprise, Healy's expression softens. “I did some time inside—in juvie, like you. Sometimes you need to feel the sun on your skin to remind you you're alive.”

Gecko tries to look contrite, but all he feels is relief. This was a very close call. And with his fate tied to Terence Florian, the calls are only going to get closer.

CHAPTER TEN

Laundry night in the apartment on Ninety-seventh Street is Tuesday after community service. Arjay is carrying yet another overfilled basket to the basement washing machine when he finds his way blocked by a bag of garbage nearly as wide as the staircase. Frowning, he peers around the obstacle to find Mrs. Liebowitz backing gingerly down the steps, struggling with the awkward load.

Not my problem.
The last time he tried to help this woman, she practically bit his head off.

But as he squeezes past the huge bundle onto the landing, he hesitates. The old lady can't even see her own shoes. She's going to fall and break her neck.

He sets down his basket and rips the big burden out of her arms. When she begins to protest, he silences her with eyes of flame.

He's most of the way to the next landing when she bursts out with: “You've got a lot of nerve—”

He cuts her off with another searing glare. Arjay is not a tough kid, but he didn't make it through fourteen months in Remsenville without developing the Look. Nonverbal communication is a vital survival skill in prison.

He squeezes through the front door and begins the arduous task of cramming the bag into one of the building's trash cans. Four floors up, Mrs. Liebowitz is grimacing down at him from her window.

He retrieves his basket and descends the musty flight to the basement. It's a claustrophobic place, especially for Arjay—low ceilings, flickering fluorescent lighting, and a pungent smell that combines mold and rotting fruit. But the atmosphere is pleasant compared with the looks he receives from Gecko and Terence.

“What?” he asks.

Gecko hands him a crumpled card. “It was in the pocket of your jeans.”

He unfolds it. The Empire State Building. The postcard.

“And you're ragging on
me
for taking risks?” Terence accuses.

“No contact with our families for six months,” Gecko adds.

Arjay studies his sneakers. “I didn't have the guts to mail it. It's just hard. At least in jail, your folks can visit you. This is like we've dropped off the face of the earth!”

Terence is unmoved. “Nobody visited
me
, dog. Course, I wasn't exactly centrally located. But if I was doing my time in our toilet bowl, my old man wouldn't have bothered to lift the seat to check on me.”

“I was only at Atchison for a couple of months,” Gecko puts in. “My mom would have gotten around to me. My brother's in a worse place, so she focuses on him.”

“To hell with them all, man,” Terence says bitterly. “You turn on the TV, you see these families all lovey-dovey and supportive. Science fiction. Your only friends are your dogs. A solid crew, that's money.”

Gecko bristles. “Just because you've got problems with your old man doesn't mean my family's like that. My mom works three jobs. She's got a lot on her mind.”

Arjay steps between them. “Don't you guys start anything because of my screwup.” He tears the postcard into tiny shreds over the garbage can. “See—it's finished. No harm done.”

As they stuff the machine for a final load, it occurs to Arjay that he's the only one with a home to miss. Terence wants nothing to do with his family, and Gecko seems all but abandoned by his. The painful surprise is that Arjay is actually at a
disadvantage
because he comes from a great mom and dad. The others just have to feel sorry for themselves. He has to agonize over his parents too.

Victoria Ko is sporting a glittering sterling silver and marcasite necklace that she definitely wasn't wearing at last week's group therapy session.

It does not escape the luminous blue eyes of Dr. Avery. “It's lovely,” she says carefully. “Where did you—get it?”

“You like?” The girl cranes her neck, modeling. “It's from the jewelry counter at Bergdorf's.”

Casey is disgusted. “She means how did you take it out of Bergdorf's? In a bag with a sales slip or stuffed inside your bra?”

“So she boosted it, so what?” Terence says with a yawn. “It's like the stuff's just sitting there, begging to be jacked.”

Arjay delivers a sharp wallop of warning to the back of his head.

“It's cool,” Terence assures him. “Doctor-patient privilege—inadmissible in court. You can spill your guts. You can even talk about that kid you whacked.”

Arjay's neck muscles bulge, but his response is measured, quiet. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Terence shrugs. “No lock on Healy's filing cabinet. I know you and your dog Garibaldi took out somebody. I'm down with that. Back in Chicago, my crew—”

“Garibaldi isn't my ‘dog,' you idiot!” Arjay seethes under tight control. “It's the statue the guy hit his head on! It was an
accident.
”

Dr. Avery moves quickly to steer the subject in a different direction. “All right, Terence. What were you going to say about your ‘crew'?”

“Just that we had it going on,” Terence replies in a subdued tone. “Nobody messed with us, not even the cops.”

“Yet you got arrested.”

A shrug. “It happens.”

Casey speaks up. “All I did was cut school, and they've got me with killers and gang leaders and…” Her black-polished fingernail stops at Gecko.

“I drove without a license,” Gecko supplies.

“Yeah,” snorts Terence, “in a stolen car full of swag.”

“I just drove,” Gecko says stubbornly. “What and where, blame
that
on my brother.”

“Why?” Anita seems genuinely confused. “If you drove the car, what does your brother have to do with it?”

Drew is cluing in. “He's the one who stole it, right? He stole the car and
made
you drive it, just like
my
brother—”

“It's a totally different thing,” Gecko interrupts irritably. “You think Reuben's heard of the Alan Whatsisface Project? He doesn't even like music—except to make me dance to his tune.”

“So what does that say to you?” interjects Dr. Avery.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Gecko mutters. “Your boyfriend's off-limits? Fine. My brother is too.”

“Your brother,” snorts Casey. “More like your
crutch.
Must be nice to have a built-in scapegoat so you can cry ‘no fair' when you get what you deserve.”

Arjay's voice is quiet. “Maybe you should spend some time behind bars before telling us what people deserve.”

“Let's take a moment,” Dr. Avery advises.

But Casey's point is not lost on Gecko. Is that what his not thinking is all about? Did he let Reuben push him around so that, no matter what happened, it would be his brother's fault?

He remembers that fateful vacation—Gecko, age nine, behind the wheel of the go-kart, burning up the boardwalk track. Even as a little kid, he couldn't miss the lightbulb going off above teenage Reuben's head. Some part of him has always understood that his brother was molding and shaping the ultimate getaway driver. But not thinking kept the notion buried.

Was it just because I never had the guts to stand up to Reuben?

Or could it be what Casey said—a crutch, an excuse to keep doing the illegal thing he loved, while laying the blame on somebody else?

Gecko glowers at the punk rock girl. Right or wrong, she definitely has a point about one thing: truancy, downloading music, petty shoplifting—in the eyes of the world, Casey, Drew, and Victoria are regular teens who need a little therapeutic help over the rough terrain of adolescence. Gecko, Arjay, and Terence, by contrast, are hard-core criminals.

It'll take a lot more than a supermodel shrink to bridge that chasm.

The mood is sour when Healy collects them in the lobby.

The group leader immediately senses that something is not right. “Out with it,” he prompts as they head north on Third Avenue. “What happened?”

Gecko is generally depressed, but Arjay has a specific grievance. “Ever hear of keeping your mouth shut?” he growls at Terence. “You should try it sometime. It's a wonderful hobby.”

“Bite me,” Terence retorts irritably.

“It's therapy,” Healy reminds them. “It's going to get personal, and there will be days that you walk out of that room ticked off at each other. Deal with it. We still have to live together.”

“You're not the one with your guts under a microscope,” Arjay mumbles.

“Been there, done that,” Healy replies honestly. “Cheer up, guys. Your luck is about to change. Look what I got us for dinner tonight.” He reaches into a plastic bag and pulls out a large crusty loaf, covered in seeds.

Terence is skeptical. “Bread and water again?”

“None of you Philistines grew up in the city, so I'll forgive your ignorance. This, gentlemen, is a caraway rye from Schnitlick's bakery. People come all the way from Pennsylvania for one of these. I've got some cold cuts at home. You never had it so good.”

Arjay frowns at the oblong slab. “I don't know whether to eat it or punt it.”

“Have it your way—” Healy grasps the loaf like a football and fire passes it into Arjay's chest.

The big boy is so shocked that he barely manages to close his arms around it. “Jeez, Mr. Healy.”

The group leader snatches it back and pantomimes a quarterback's three-step drop. “Terence—go long!”

“Forget it, man—”

But the rye is already in the air. Terence leaps, getting his fingertips on the shrink-wrap and gathering in the package. Grinning mischievously, he rears back and flings the loaf at Healy's face. The group leader snatches it out of the air a split second before it would have taken his head off.

Healy cackles in triumph. “All right, Gecko, your turn!” And the bread is headed his way.

He catches it and tosses it carefully back. The three boys are not quite sure what to make of this easy playfulness. Gecko spent his childhood tiptoeing around the Wrath of Reuben, and fun has never fit into the street reputation Terence is always trying to cultivate. As for Arjay—he's not a football fan, and for good reason. His life has been in free fall ever since the Hawthorne Hawks tried to recruit him.

Yet there's Healy, laughing and shouting with an infectious enthusiasm. It doesn't seem to bother him at all when their dinner gets bounced off walls and pavement—not even when it rolls into the road and is narrowly missed by a double-decker sightseeing bus.