The Juvie Three (4 page)

“I'm not a gangster,” Gecko says coldly. “I drove the getaway car. When somebody gets run over,
then
you can be afraid of me.”

Diego works up the courage to mumble his first-ever word to Gecko. “Sorry.”

I might as well have stayed in jail, Gecko reflects bitterly. They may not beat you with soap here, but they still know how to hurt you.

It has been seven months since Terence Florian last set foot in a real school. For all intents and purposes, though, it's been a lot longer than that. Going to a school and going to school—attending classes, doing work, learning—are two very different things. He has no problem with being physically present in the building, but that's where his participation ends.

He knows the ropes. He's woven most of them. The bathroom break, for one. With a little creativity, a twenty-five-second bodily function can be stretched into a twenty-five-minute absence from a forty-minute class. He takes one every period, which gives him a chance to cruise the hallways and scope the place out.

Everybody is always talking about big, bad New York City schools. This place isn't so tough. A cop on every floor. Big deal. His old school in Chicago was more heavily fortified than that secret warehouse in New Mexico where they keep the aliens in formaldehyde.

The footsteps are a dead giveaway. Cop shoes. The authorities would have a much better chance of sneaking up on people if they'd invest in a pair of New Balance.

A voice calls, “Hey—let's see your hall pass!”

It's invigorating to be chased again, although the pursuit is so lame that he can barely bring himself to speed up past a jog. He scampers down the stairs and ducks into a third-floor bathroom.

The stall doors have all been removed, and a business transaction is taking place in the end one. Terence surprises himself by recognizing the customer from one of the classes he briefly attended that day. The other kid has a dollar sign razor-cut into his very short hair. His shirt is rolled up to his belly button and about twenty cell phones are displayed in the high waistband of his boxers.

Spying Terence, the shopper shies away and rushes out of the bathroom. The seller whips down his shirt and begins nonchalantly washing his hands at the basin.

Terence is intrigued. “Nice merchandise. Cloned?”

It earns him a very angry frown. “Don't know what you're talking about, yo.”

“The hardware. You jack it yourself, or are you in the middle?”

A lightning move, and a knife appears in the boy's hand. “Back off, dead man!”

And Terence does back off, beaming with something close to joy. He reverses out the bathroom door and punches the air in triumph. After seven months on that jerkwater island, he's finally found home again.

School might be the place for him after all.

CHAPTER SIX

The tiny office is above a take-out Chinese restaurant, up a dusty flight of stairs that smells of mothballs and fried rice. This is the nerve center of the Upper Second Avenue Business Improvement District. In addition to their school responsibilities, the three boys each owe the city of New York twelve hours per week of community service. Cleaning and sweeping this shopping area is how the city has decided they will serve their time.

The foreman, Jerry, is the most neatly dressed, well-groomed homeless person they've ever seen. He has gotten himself off the street working for the B.I.D. and now runs the place while still living in a shelter. He introduces them to the only other person on their crew today—a forty-three-year-old stockbroker paying off his own community service for a DUI conviction.

In the walk-in closet hang several dozen sets of coveralls with the B.I.D. logo on the back. Gecko freezes with the pants halfway up his leg. They might call this a uniform, but it's really a jumpsuit, just like the inmates wear at Atchison. He promised himself not seventy-two hours ago that he'd never again put on one of these things.

His eyes meet Arjay's, and it's obvious that the big boy is struggling with the same thoughts. “Just a few yards of cotton,” he reasons, trying to convince himself as much as Gecko.

Terence, who is as sensitive as a block of wood, shrugs himself right in. “Hey, guys—doesn't this remind you of lockup? Count off—one, two, three…”

He gets no appreciation from his intended audience, but the stockbroker guffaws loudly while zippering his coveralls over his three-thousand-dollar Armani suit. “Yeah, I get it. We look like a bunch of convicts, right? I should get a picture for the guys at the trading desk.”

Grinning, Terence slaps him on the shoulder in a brotherly gesture, and they file from the closet change room.

Terence is halfway out the door when a big hand closes on the back of his collar.

“Hold up.”

“Let go, man,” Terence complains. “This is community service. Got to get out there and serve.”

“Hand it over,” Arjay orders sternly.

“What are you talking about? Hand what over?”

“That guy's wallet.”

“You're bugging, Jumbo! I didn't jack anybody's wallet!”

Effortlessly, Arjay lifts Terence off the floor with one hand and begins patting him down with the other.

“Okay, okay—I'll give you half.” His eyes take in Gecko. “Fine. Three-way split. The Three Musketeers, roommates to the end. What do you say?”

The big boy's expression darkens. “I don't care if you get yourself arrested and wind up on death row. But this gig is part of Healy's program, and that means it gets reported to Ms. Vaughn. And you know she's just looking for a reason to screw us. I'm not going back inside because you can't keep your hands off everything you see. The wallet. Now.”

Petulantly, Terence hands it over.

“Hey, mister,” calls Arjay, “you dropped your wallet.”

Terence is thoroughly disgusted. “I'm surrounded by choirboys! What's the matter with you people?”

The three teenagers and the stockbroker are issued brooms and dustpans and sent out to rid Second Avenue of trash. It isn't hard work, yet somehow it's backbreaking to be constantly hunched over, peering into the gutter.

Gecko is amazed at what manages to find its way to a New York City sidewalk. The same square yard of pavement can be home to an apple core, a dead mouse, a six-year-old newspaper from Pakistan, the skeleton of what looks like an extinct fish, a Pez dispenser that resembles Adolf Hitler, and a tissue smeared with an unidentified teal substance that would surely glow in the dark.

The biggest problem isn't the garbage; it's the people. By four o'clock, the sidewalks are teeming with humanity. You lower your eyes to sweep up a coffee cup, and you're lucky if you don't get bodychecked into a parked car. Plus, more people bring more litter.

Terence works harder with his mouth than with his broom. “That's right! Throw another gum wrapper! You're a model citizen! Freak!”

Mostly, though, he takes endless bathroom breaks at the Starbucks on the corner.

The explosive roar of unmuffled engines cuts the air. Two souped-up cars on balloon tires erupt from the light and roar down Second Avenue, obviously drag racing. Gecko watches them till they're out of sight, almost overcome by the feeling of pure longing. He hasn't been behind the wheel of a car since he wrecked the Infiniti and got himself and his brother arrested. It is coming home to him that he will not drive again for a very long time.

Terence emerges from Starbucks after his ninth break and bats idly at a pigeon with his broom. Through the shifting sea of pedestrians, he spies a single pair of snake eyes watching him. The crowd parts to reveal the kid with the dollar sign razor-cut into the side of his scalp—the one moving cell phones from a waistband display.

Terence can't hold back a smile. Excellent. The jumpsuit and sweeper are as good as a military insignia in the language of the street. There are no saints on community service.

He's making an impression.

He looks over again, and the kid has disappeared.

At six thirty, Jerry, the homeless foreman, calls them back to the office to change out of coveralls and get their time sheets punched. Healy is waiting for them.

“They did great,” Jerry assures him.

It's a compliment, Gecko reflects, but only on the surface. What it really says is that if these three halfway house convicts can get through a whole afternoon without killing anybody or soiling their uniforms, it's cause for celebration.

“I did some grocery shopping,” Healy tells them on the way home. “We're having baked ziti and a tossed salad tonight.”

“Man, I'm starving!” Terence exclaims. “Sure hope you can cook.”

“Sure hope
you
can cook,” Healy shoots right back. “I'm not your butler. Group home, group effort.”

“Some mom you turned out to be,” Arjay grumbles good-naturedly.

“Even in lockup they feed you,” Terence argues. “They don't put you through the shredder all day and then expect more work when you get home.”

“I'm glad you brought that up,” Healy says mildly. “What you just described is called ‘the real world.' Today can be your first life lesson. Don't forget to leave time for homework after we're done with the dishes.”

They trudge up the concrete steps of their row house, and Healy lets them in the front door with its creaky hinges. For the first time, Gecko notices the doorbells, which are located above the mailboxes in the vestibule. Each buzzer is labeled with a name, but not 4B, which is covered by a strip of masking tape.

Halfway house means you only partially exist.

The narrow staircase is blocked by Mrs. Liebowitz, a frail elderly woman wrestling with two gigantic grocery bags.

Arjay jumps forward and takes one of the bags, reaching for the other.

The shriek that comes from Mrs. Liebowitz is like the mating call of a hawk. “Get away from me!”

Arjay jumps back as if he's been burned.

Healy speaks up. “It's okay, Mrs. Liebowitz. Arjay was just trying to help you. We all want to help you.”

“You want to help me? Move your juvenile delinquents somewhere else! This used to be a nice building where you could borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor without worrying if he's got a criminal record!”

The group leader tries to be kind. “I know you weren't pleased about accepting our program into the building. But now that we're here, I have to remind you that these boys haven't done anything to you. We're going to have to find a way to live together.”

In answer, she snatches her bag back from Arjay, musters a hidden reserve of strength, and storms up the stairs without so much as a backward glance at her fourth-floor neighbors.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After all that Gecko has been through since flipping the Infiniti, this moment might be the most bizarre: sitting in a circle in a Park Avenue office while a punk rock girl lists her top ten ways to die.

“…Number three,” announces Casey Wagner with a tongue-stud lisp. “Space junk. There are hundreds of old satellites ready to drop out of decaying orbits onto some poor unsuspecting sap. Number two—radio waves from wireless devices. Hey, Wall Street guy, your BlackBerry is sterilizing my brain tissue!”

Terence adjusts the angle of his slouch on the uncomfortable chair. “What's number one? Being bored to death?”

“Terence,” Dr. Avery warns sharply. “This is a safe environment. There's no interruption here. Go on, Casey.”

Casey runs an agitated hand through blue-streaked spikes of her hair. “Well, it's a known fact that the island of Manhattan lies on a bigger earthquake fault than the San Andreas. One of these days, the George Washington Bridge is going to be a jump ramp.”

Dr. Avery carefully straightens the jacket of her tailored suit. “Thank you, Casey. You've given us a lot to think about. Now here's something for you to consider: why would a young woman with her whole life ahead of her be so focused on death?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Casey gestures around the circle. “Look at us. Everybody's different. What's the one thing we have in common? We're all going to
die.
”

Gecko holds his head. As if school and community service aren't enough, Social Services has decided the three boys need their heads shrunk. And that means their one free weekday afternoon is to be spent in Dr. Avery's adolescent psychotherapy group, which meets every Thursday at four.

It's a complete waste of what little spare time they have, but at least the scenery is good. Dr. Kathryn Avery is a drop-dead gorgeous blue-eyed blonde, with a supermodel figure not even her conservative business suit can conceal.

“You know, Doc, I got fears too,” Terence puts in. “Right now, I'm scared of leaving this office without your phone number.”

There are snorts of laughter around the circle, and Casey bounces a crumpled piece of paper off Terence's forehead.

“For professional reasons!” Terence defends himself. “I'm a troubled youth. That's why I'm here.”

“You're here because the court ordered it,” Casey reminds him. “That's why we're
all
here.”

“Mr. Healy has my emergency number,” the therapist announces with a tolerant smile. “My service will forward any messages that can't wait.”

“What, your
husband
doesn't like strange guys calling?” Terence takes in her ringless hand. “Or your boyfriend?”

The skin tightens a little on the supermodel cheekbones. “My personal life isn't what we talk about here.”

“But you've got a boyfriend?” he persists.

“That subject is off-limits in this group.”

“Wait a minute.” Drew Roddenbury, a nerdy sixteen-year-old, speaks up. “You said
no
subject is ever off-limits in group therapy.”

“I'm not a member of the group,” Dr. Avery explains. “I'm here as a facilitator to make sure we have an open forum for everybody to express their feelings.”