Shelter
Page 25
That was enough for Troy. Keeping one hand gripping my shirt, he cocked his fist way back, almost like a windup. It was a classic move and when he bullied guys like Spoon, it probably worked. But it was dumb. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You snap for the weak zones—nose, throat, groin, eyes. You don’t take your time and pull your fist back.
There were several moves I could make here, but I decided to go with the one that would leave the least damage. I quickly trapped the hand on my chest with my forearm, grabbing on to the fingers. I jerked to the right, knocking him slightly off balance. The final part of the move—actually this all took less than a second—was to sweep the leg.
Troy went down on the pavement.
I didn’t know what would happen next, if he’d be dumb enough to try to stand or dive for my legs, but I was ready.
“What’s going on here?”
It was Ms. Owens. I let go of Troy. He jumped up with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to give off an I-was-just-about-to-beat-your-butt attitude. I didn’t challenge it.
“I said, what’s going on here?”
There were loads of nothings muttered. Troy and Buck and the assorted jock-toughs seemed to fade away. Ms. Owens glared at me for a moment and then she left too.
Ema stood next to me. “Getting in a fight with a popular senior. Pissing off a schoolteacher and the local chief of police. Hanging with two major-league losers.” She slapped my back. “Welcome to high school.”
We still had time before the bell rang.
The three of us were back huddled around Ema’s laptop. She clicked the video icon. The B corridor at school appeared on the screen. I expected the feed to be grainy or black-and-white, but it looked high-def. Ema hit the Play button, and a man came into view. He wasn’t a teacher. He wasn’t a student. He wasn’t staff.
He looked like a pure hoodlum.
He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, low-slung jeans, and bad facial stubble. Thick gold chains hung from his neck. In his right hand, he carried a crowbar.
There was also a tattoo on this face.
I looked over at Spoon. “Tattoo on the face. Isn’t that what Mrs. Kent said the man who broke into their house had?”
Spoon nodded. “It has to be the same guy.”
What could this hoodlum have to do with Ashley?
The video didn’t come with sound, but the silence was kind of deafening. Tattoo Face stopped walking in front of the locker. Using the crowbar, he smashed Ashley’s lock. He opened the locker and stepped back. Tattoo Face looked inside and then, even without sound, you could tell he was angry and probably cursing.
The locker was empty.
A moment or two later, Tattoo Face stormed away. “That’s it,” Spoon said.
Ema stopped the tape.
“So now what?” I asked. “Do we show this to the cops?”
Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “You’re kidding, right?”
“This guy probably broke into the Kent household. We have video of his face.”
“Video I stole from the security room at school,” Spoon said. “How would we explain that? I don’t trust cops.” Spoon turned to Ema and puffed out his chest. “See, I have a police record. Is it true that chicks like dangerous men?”
“Men maybe,” Ema said. “But he’s right, Mickey. You can’t go to the cops. Spoon here will get in trouble, for one, but also, hey, remember who’s police chief in this town.”
Troy’s father, Chief Taylor. Oh boy, did I remember. Not only did I have a problem with the Taylor clan, but clearly Uncle Myron didn’t get along with them either.
“Okay, so we don’t go to the cops,” I said. “So what do we do next?”
Ema clicked on the screen again. The video feed came up. She clicked an arrow and the feed started going backward in slow motion. She stopped it and then zoomed in so that we had a pretty clear look at the side of Tattoo Face’s cheek—the one with the tattoo.
“I have a thought,” Ema said, “but it’s probably a long shot.”
Spoon and I signaled that we were anxious to hear it.
“I know a guy. A tattoo artist named Agent. He did my stuff.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Anyway, the tattoo community is a pretty tight one. Everyone knows everyone. These guys are artists, and this looks like pretty special work. So what I’m thinking is, we show this photograph to Agent. Maybe he can tell us who the artist is.”
I looked at Spoon. He nodded that he liked the idea. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“One problem,” Ema said. “There really is no public transportation to get there, and it’s too far to walk. We need to get someone to drive us.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
Ema frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I can drive us.”
“You’re not sixteen yet.”
“Don’t worry about that either,” I said. And then the bell rang.
Mrs. Friedman had a surprise for us in history class.
“We are going to do a project on the French Revolution,” she said. “Everyone will need a partner, so please choose one.”
I didn’t know anyone in the class, so I figured I would wait until the end and take whoever was left. Everyone else in the class moved in a flurry, joining up with friends, afraid to be left out. Everyone, that is, except Rachel Caldwell. She stared at me and smiled. Even though I was sitting, I felt my knees go a little weak. People tapped Rachel on the shoulder, called her name, tried to get her attention. She ignored them and continued to meet my gaze.
“Well?” she asked me.
“Well what?” I said.
I just keep stunning her with the great one-liners.
“Do you want to be history partners?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Mrs. Friedman clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people, if you have your partner, move your chair next to theirs so I can tell you the assignment.”
I rose and grabbed my chair. I stopped for a moment, feeling shy, but Rachel slid over and signaled for me to move next to her. I did. She smelled like, well, a beautiful girl. I started to feel warm. Rachel Caldwell gave Mrs. Friedman her undivided attention. She took lots of notes. Her notebook was pristine. I tried to pay attention—Mrs. Friedman was indeed giving us an assignment—but the words swam by in a murky haze.
When the bell rang, Rachel turned to me. “When do you want to meet up?”
There were several moves I could make here, but I decided to go with the one that would leave the least damage. I quickly trapped the hand on my chest with my forearm, grabbing on to the fingers. I jerked to the right, knocking him slightly off balance. The final part of the move—actually this all took less than a second—was to sweep the leg.
Troy went down on the pavement.
I didn’t know what would happen next, if he’d be dumb enough to try to stand or dive for my legs, but I was ready.
“What’s going on here?”
It was Ms. Owens. I let go of Troy. He jumped up with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to give off an I-was-just-about-to-beat-your-butt attitude. I didn’t challenge it.
“I said, what’s going on here?”
There were loads of nothings muttered. Troy and Buck and the assorted jock-toughs seemed to fade away. Ms. Owens glared at me for a moment and then she left too.
Ema stood next to me. “Getting in a fight with a popular senior. Pissing off a schoolteacher and the local chief of police. Hanging with two major-league losers.” She slapped my back. “Welcome to high school.”
We still had time before the bell rang.
The three of us were back huddled around Ema’s laptop. She clicked the video icon. The B corridor at school appeared on the screen. I expected the feed to be grainy or black-and-white, but it looked high-def. Ema hit the Play button, and a man came into view. He wasn’t a teacher. He wasn’t a student. He wasn’t staff.
He looked like a pure hoodlum.
He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, low-slung jeans, and bad facial stubble. Thick gold chains hung from his neck. In his right hand, he carried a crowbar.
There was also a tattoo on this face.
I looked over at Spoon. “Tattoo on the face. Isn’t that what Mrs. Kent said the man who broke into their house had?”
Spoon nodded. “It has to be the same guy.”
What could this hoodlum have to do with Ashley?
The video didn’t come with sound, but the silence was kind of deafening. Tattoo Face stopped walking in front of the locker. Using the crowbar, he smashed Ashley’s lock. He opened the locker and stepped back. Tattoo Face looked inside and then, even without sound, you could tell he was angry and probably cursing.
The locker was empty.
A moment or two later, Tattoo Face stormed away. “That’s it,” Spoon said.
Ema stopped the tape.
“So now what?” I asked. “Do we show this to the cops?”
Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “You’re kidding, right?”
“This guy probably broke into the Kent household. We have video of his face.”
“Video I stole from the security room at school,” Spoon said. “How would we explain that? I don’t trust cops.” Spoon turned to Ema and puffed out his chest. “See, I have a police record. Is it true that chicks like dangerous men?”
“Men maybe,” Ema said. “But he’s right, Mickey. You can’t go to the cops. Spoon here will get in trouble, for one, but also, hey, remember who’s police chief in this town.”
Troy’s father, Chief Taylor. Oh boy, did I remember. Not only did I have a problem with the Taylor clan, but clearly Uncle Myron didn’t get along with them either.
“Okay, so we don’t go to the cops,” I said. “So what do we do next?”
Ema clicked on the screen again. The video feed came up. She clicked an arrow and the feed started going backward in slow motion. She stopped it and then zoomed in so that we had a pretty clear look at the side of Tattoo Face’s cheek—the one with the tattoo.
“I have a thought,” Ema said, “but it’s probably a long shot.”
Spoon and I signaled that we were anxious to hear it.
“I know a guy. A tattoo artist named Agent. He did my stuff.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Anyway, the tattoo community is a pretty tight one. Everyone knows everyone. These guys are artists, and this looks like pretty special work. So what I’m thinking is, we show this photograph to Agent. Maybe he can tell us who the artist is.”
I looked at Spoon. He nodded that he liked the idea. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“One problem,” Ema said. “There really is no public transportation to get there, and it’s too far to walk. We need to get someone to drive us.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
Ema frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I can drive us.”
“You’re not sixteen yet.”
“Don’t worry about that either,” I said. And then the bell rang.
Mrs. Friedman had a surprise for us in history class.
“We are going to do a project on the French Revolution,” she said. “Everyone will need a partner, so please choose one.”
I didn’t know anyone in the class, so I figured I would wait until the end and take whoever was left. Everyone else in the class moved in a flurry, joining up with friends, afraid to be left out. Everyone, that is, except Rachel Caldwell. She stared at me and smiled. Even though I was sitting, I felt my knees go a little weak. People tapped Rachel on the shoulder, called her name, tried to get her attention. She ignored them and continued to meet my gaze.
“Well?” she asked me.
“Well what?” I said.
I just keep stunning her with the great one-liners.
“Do you want to be history partners?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Mrs. Friedman clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people, if you have your partner, move your chair next to theirs so I can tell you the assignment.”
I rose and grabbed my chair. I stopped for a moment, feeling shy, but Rachel slid over and signaled for me to move next to her. I did. She smelled like, well, a beautiful girl. I started to feel warm. Rachel Caldwell gave Mrs. Friedman her undivided attention. She took lots of notes. Her notebook was pristine. I tried to pay attention—Mrs. Friedman was indeed giving us an assignment—but the words swam by in a murky haze.
When the bell rang, Rachel turned to me. “When do you want to meet up?”
