Stick (33 page)

There were people—big people—wrapped in blankets or anything they could bundle themselves in, lying on the benches in Pershing Square. Their pungent smell was like an incense of filth and defeat.

One of them lifted his head when we walked by. He called after us.

“Jericho and two of his       pretty boys.   You got anything for us, J?                      Jericho?”

Jericho didn't say anything. We just kept walking.

It was warm. It must be easy to last out on the streets in a place like Los Angeles, I thought.

On Flower Street, Jericho said, “When am I         going to see you again?       I'm going to miss you,     babe.”

Then he kissed Bosten right on the mouth.

Bosten looked at me. I could tell he was embarrassed. But I didn't care. I wanted to punch that rat-faced kid.

I said, “I'll write down our address and phone number in Oxnard, in case you're ever out there.”

Jericho laughed. “Baby, I'm always
out there
.     I'm just never out.    There.”

He had his twitching arm around my brother's waist.

“There it is.”

The three of us stood at the back of the lot. Aunt Dahlia's Dodge wasn't the only victim of the ten-pee-em lockdown, but maybe the Greek guy stored cars there, too. Jericho curled his fingers through the chain link and studied the layout like he was a general planning a surprise attack.

“There's too much      light up front.    The cops would see us. I think we'll just take it out        right here.”

I wondered how Jericho thought we'd get a Dodge over that fence.

He said, “You.        Little Brother.     Stand down there and watch for cops.”

He pointed his snot-streaked hand at the corner of the lot.

I didn't mind watching for cops, even though I wasn't really clear about what to do if I found any, because I didn't want to see what Jericho and my brother were going to do about freeing Aunt Dahlia's car.

In minutes, though, it was obvious enough. Jericho carried some heavy wire cutters in his back pocket, and it wasn't long at all before the back line of fencing had been completely separated and a gate wide enough to drive a tank through had been opened up.

Just like that.

I drive at night.

I blow things up.

I steal cars.

We all three sat in the front seat, with Bosten in the middle.

I was kind of hoping that Jericho would just jump out at the first stoplight, but he didn't.

And the frame of the Dodge scraped a little when I drove it off the sidewalk and over the curb. Luckily, there wasn't any traffic, too, because I went for an entire block in the wrong direction down a one-way street.

Once I straightened out and got the car heading in a legal direction, Jericho declared himself the navigator, and guided us west on Sunset until we were driving along Santa Monica Boulevard, looking for a place where we could get something to eat.

We ate breakfast at a Denny's in Hollywood at one in the morning.

The people who worked there were not nice to us at all. I could tell they'd had Jericho and Bosten as customers before. And while we ate, Jericho proudly announced, “This is probably        going to be the first time I don't get    thrown out of here.”

Bosten smiled, then glanced down at his pancakes and said, “Maybe.”

*   *   *

By two o'clock,
we were outside an abandoned building where junkies and street kids stayed. It was where Jericho asked me to drop him off. Bosten knew the place, too, but I didn't want to hear anything about it.

So when Jericho pushed the door open and slid out of the car, I grabbed on to Bosten's wrist as he started to scoot away from me.

“Don't go out there.”

“I'm not going to       leave you,   Stick.”

I let him go.

I didn't watch what they did. The only thing I cared about was getting Bosten back in the car and taking him home—going home again, like we were supposed to. I heard them talking to each other, but I didn't want to know what they said. I guess I felt mean, bad for taking Bosten away from somebody he cared about, but I knew my brother couldn't live the way he'd been going.

Bosten burned too bright for that.

He was a wild horse running at a full gallop straight for a cliff he knew was there.

My brother got back into the car.

I breathed again.

He noticed.

“Look.        I told you        I won't leave you.”

“Okay.” My voice shook.

“I'll   try to be          good.”

“Okay.”

I waited for him to shut the door.

“I think you should      give         Jericho some money for helping us out.”

*   *   *

I knew I promised
that I'd never do anything to make Aunt Dahlia suffer again, so I could hardly look at her when we finally got home to the Strand. It was almost four in the morning, and Dahlia had fallen asleep on the couch in her living room with all the lights turned on in her little house.

She trembled when we walked through the door together.

Then she started to cry.

Dahlia put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my ear. She whispered, “From the first time I saw you,      I always knew you were someone.    I always knew you were.”

Then she grabbed on to Bosten and kissed him all over and put her hands in his filthy hair and told him, “I am so       happy you're home. You look so       good. Baby, you look so     good.”

And Bosten squeezed her back.

I went into my room and took the clean clothes I'd been carrying for my brother out of my suitcase. I brought them into the bathroom, put them down next to the sink, and then I ran the shower for him.

*   *   *

Things change.

Sometimes things heal.

Bosten's arm got better,

but there was something in both of us that remained empty,

and it wasn't something anyone could give a name to,

and we knew that,

so, together, we kept it chained

inside a room somewhere,

waiting for morning.

*   *   *

It's always foggy
along the beach in California during June.

The school year is nearly over.

Bosten is enrolled in continuation school,

but I don't think he has learned how to continue very well.

Kim and Evan are waiting outside.

Bosten and I still sleep in the same bed at Dahlia's house.

*   *   *

We are going into the sea.

Other books by Andrew Smith

The Marbury Lens

In the Path of Falling Objects

Ghost Medicine

A F
EIWEL AND
F
RIENDS
B
OOK

An Imprint of Macmillan

STICK
. Copyright © 2011 by Andrew Smith. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

ISBN: 978-0-312-61341-9

Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

First Edition: 2011

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eISBN 978-1-4299-9537-5