Four Dog Riot
A novel by
Joe Cottonwood
Smashwords edition Copyright © 2011 by Joe Cottonwood.
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Cover painting by Melody Pilotte.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A note from the author:
This story is told partly through its music. To hear the music, you can download the podcast (for free) from iTunes or from podiobooks.com.
Menlo Park is a real town and a fine one, but I have taken a few liberties with geography. Most important, there is no Arbor School. There is a real footbridge and a real San Francisquito Creek, and in a long-ago, more playful age I used to skinnydip in those cool waters. As for the people, there is no Lipinski, no Bullhack. In or out of school, all the characters are fiction.
The name “Bowie” in this novel is pronounced the Maryland way: Boo-ee. (Rhymes with hooey, phooey, and screwy.) “Bucher” is pronounced Be-you-ker.
* * * one * * *
Bowie Brown took a seat on the hard wooden chair. He wiggled. No matter where he put his butt, there was no comfortable position.
His body never fit anything any more: clothes, furniture, classrooms. The chair was probably designed by a maniac anyway — some madman who thought it was a crime to slouch — and in the Vice Principal’s office, where Bowie was sitting, slouching probably was a crime. So he sat straight.
In a soft and padded swivel chair, Mr. Lipinski rocked backwards and stared. Bowie knew better than to speak before the Vice Principal said something first. Lipinski had thin lips always pressed together so that he seemed to have no lips at all. Nobody had ever — not even once — seen Lipless Lipinski smile. You better not laugh when he’s talking to you. You better cop a serious and sorrowful attitude if you want to get out of that office without a suspension.
Some day, some kid is gonna bring a gun to school, point it at the Vice Principal, and say, Smile, Lipless. Smile or die.
Lipinski drummed his fingers on the desktop. Br-r-r-um. Br-r-r-um. Finally he spoke: “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Bowie?”
“She said I was disruptive.”
“Who?”
“Plattly.”
“Mrs. Plattly.”
“Sorry. Mrs. Plattly.”
Bowie crossed his legs, then immediately uncrossed them. Sometimes he had more body than he knew what to do with. Six foot three inches tall. Eighth grade. Taller than Lipinski. Taller than his teachers. Sometimes he wished he could hide.
“You were disruptive, Bowie. What were you doing?”
“Playing guitar.”
“You had a guitar in class?”
“Air guitar.”
Lipinski frowned. “Why, Bowie?”
“She was … talking.”
“Of course Mrs. Plattly was talking. She’s a teacher. Isn’t she supposed to talk?”
“But it’s … English. She just … talks.”
“Bowie. Listen.” Lipinski leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his mouth a thin line. “Already this year you've had three incidents. On the first day of school, you broke a kid’s collarbone. Next you—”
“I didn’t break it. What happened was, when he hit the bleachers, it broke. The bleachers broke his collar bone.”
“He hit the bleachers because you threw him there. Bowie, you can’t—”
“I didn’t throw him there. I just kind of pushed him after he called me Boogie Lips.”
“And we have a Zero Tolerance Policy for any racial remarks. You could have reported it, Bowie, and we would have—”
“So do I. I have a Zero Tolerance Policy for skinheads.”
“You didn’t have to break his collar bone.”
“I didn’t break it. The bleachers broke it.”
“Bowie. Stop.” Lipinski held up his hands. “I don’t want to debate that unfortunate incident. I’m talking about now. It’s only September. A long way to June. But already you — this week it’s disrupting class. Last week it was sexual harassment. You can’t—”
“I didn’t harass Mimi Bucher. It was an accident.”
“You touched her. In a private place.”
“Her butt. My hand accidentally brushed against Mimi Bucher’s butt when I was reaching back to get—”
“We can’t allow that kind of ‘accident’ among students in—”
“I wouldn’t even want to touch her. She’s bought.”
“She’s what, Bowie?”
“Bought. She buys it.”
“Buys what?”
“Everything. Labels. Names.”
“What are you talking about, Bowie?”
“She wears names on her clothes.”
“Everybody wears names on their clothes. I wear names.”
“You're bought.”
“Okay, I'm bought, whatever. What does this have to do with sexual harassment?”
“Nothing.” The Buke, Bowie called her — Mimi the Buke. “How come you believe Mimi Bucher and you don’t believe me?”
“I have no reason not to believe her. She never stole a car.”
“They told you that? They told you I stole a car?”
“It's in your record, Bowie. They sent your record from Maryland. You don't escape your record just because you move across the country.”
“I never stole. You can't steal something if it belongs to your family. I borrowed the family car.”
“And your father called the Maryland State Police.”
“He's not my father.”
“Okay, your stepfather. Whatever. Your family called the police.”
“He's not my family. I told you. He's my stepfather.”
“Okay, your stepfather isn't your family. Then you didn't borrow the family car. You stole that man's car. And by the way you were thirteen years old. It was illegal for you to drive any car.”
“Don't lawyer me.”
“I'm not lawyering you. I'm just telling you. You got your wish. You're in California now and you live with your actual father. The car—stolen, borrowed, whatever— that’s history. Same with sexual harassment. You did the crime, you paid the time. I don’t want to punish you for air guitar. I just want you to get the message. You can’t be disruptive in class.”
“I wasn’t making any noise.”
“Will you stop?”
“Yeah.”
“Bowie, there’s a world of opportunity waiting for you. This is nineteen ninety-eight, for Pete’s sake. It’s almost a new millennium. People right here in this town are inventing stuff like — you know — internetworking stuff. Making fortunes. Stay out of trouble and you might be one of them. But…” Again, Lipinski was drumming his fingers. “I worry about you, Bowie. You're new here and you're, uh, shall we say, you're not fitting in. Have you made any friends?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going to give you an assignment. This is your homework: I want you to make a friend. Okay?”
“Uh. Okay.”
“All right. You can go.”
Lipinski started to write out a Hall Pass.
Bowie smiled with relief.
Lipinski looked up. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Would you think one day of suspension is funny?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ve got it. One day. To think about it.”
“But you just said—”
“We cannot tolerate this kind of behavior, Bowie. We will not allow you or any other gangster to be a threat to the safety of this school.”
So there it was.
Bowie clamped his jaw — lipless like Lipinski — determined not to say another word which would only be used against him. He was, uh, shall we say, not fitting in. How do you fit in when you stand out? A gangster. A threat to the safety of this school. Big Bowie.
Big, black Bowie.
In a world of white.
* * * two * * *
Hoot spoke without thinking: “I collect waterfalls.”
Immediately, Hoot was sorry he’d said it. In the front row of lab tables, Mimi Bucher was snickering. At the rear of the classroom, tilted back on a stool with his back against the wall, Ivan Gold was scowling. Waterfalls? What kind of idiot collects waterfalls?
No wonder I can’t make friends, Hoot told himself. Every time I open my mouth, people find out I’m a quirk.
“That’s unusual,” Mr. Bullhack said, leaning with one arm against the blackboard. “How do you collect a waterfall, Mr. Howard?”
“He keeps it in his bathtub,” Mimi Bucher said, giggling.
Mr. Bullhack waggled a finger at Mimi Bucher to silence her, though he didn’t seem annoyed by her interruption. No teacher ever was annoyed at Mimi Bucher, and hundreds of students wanted to be her friend. She had everything a girl needed for popularity in eighth grade: cool clothes, wide smile, real breasts.
“I hike,” Hoot said. “I like to hike. I hike to the waterfall. And then I draw it.”
“So you have a collection of drawings of waterfalls?” Mr. Bullhack asked.
“Yes.”
“Could you bring them to school tomorrow? I’d like to see them.”
“Uh. Okay.”
Ivan Gold snorted. Ivan had the faint remains of a black eye, fading. A week ago it had been blue, red, purple, a whole palette of color.
Now Bullhack seemed annoyed. “And what about you, Mr. Gold? Do you have a collection or a hobby of some kind that’s related to biology?”
“Sure.” Ivan pushed forward from the wall. The two front legs of the stool hit the floor with a clomp. Ivan had been held back a grade. Twice.
“What is it, Mr. Gold?”
“Earthworms.”
“You collect worms?”
“No.”
“You raise worms? You fish with worms?”
“No. I hold one in my hand. Like this. And then I light a match and hold it in my other hand. Like this. I hold the worm over the match. Like this.”
“Is this an experiment, Mr. Gold?”
“No. It’s just fun.”
“What’s fun about torturing worms?”
Ivan shrugged. “It just is.”
Hoot heard a sob. At the table next to his he saw that Jaz was agitated, twisting on her stool. Little Jasmine McGuire, the Asian girl with the Irish name. A tear raced down her cheek. Suddenly she leaped off her stool and shouted, “You are dirt, Ivan Gold! You are what comes out at the end of a worm! You are the dirt that even a worm can’t digest. An earthworm has a soul just like you and me! Just like me anyway because you don’t have one! You have nothing. You are worm excrement!” Then she ran from the room. Jaz was excitable that way.
“I’m what?” Ivan said to no one in particular.
Mimi Bucher smiled sweetly. “She called you a worm turd.”
Ivan scowled, scrunching his fading shiner.
Mimi tossed back her hair and met Ivan’s glare with one of her own.
Hoot was fascinated. Whatever was going on between Mimi and Ivan, it wasn’t about worms.
“Grrrmmm!” Bullhack cleared his throat.
Mimi Bucher turned to face the teacher, again smiling sweetly, in a challenge: Reprimand me, Bullhack. I dare you.
Mr. Bullhack twitched his cheek and glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty-three pairs of eyes followed his. Would this class ever end? Again he grrrmmmed and then began passing out worksheets as he said, “Today is a lab day…”
No reprimand, of course. When you’re as cute as the Buke, you can say turd in Biology. You can say just about anything at all.
* * * three * * *
Later that afternoon Jaz pulled on Hoot’s sleeve as they were passing in the hall and said, “That’s great. That you collect waterfalls.”
Most of the girls were taller than Hoot, but not little Jasmine McGuire. Size matters in eighth grade. Hoot was always keenly aware of how short he was. But Jaz was even shorter. She had braces on her teeth. Her rich black hair hung almost to her waist, gathered in two simple braids.
Jaz said, “I’m starting a collection, too.”
“Worm excrement?”
“No.” Jaz grinned, a mouth full of metal, little strings of saliva stretching between the silver bands. “Nebulae.”
“Uh. What?”
“Nebulae. You know? In the sky?”
“Like — big clouds of dust? In outer space?”
“Right. Dust, gas, stars — all together. Nebulae.”
And then she ran to class, pigtails swinging, banging behind.
* * * four * * *
Alone as always, Bowie walked home playing air guitar — a special model of air guitar that could instantly convert into an AK-47 semi-automatic rifle. He’d play 3 chords — bla bla blom — and then he’d shoot out the tires of a Mercedes — chuk chuk chuk.
All the houses in this neighborhood were for wealthy snots — big estates with broad yards, fancy gardens, classy cars. Bowie shot only at the luxury cars. The gardener’s pickup, the housecleaner’s old station wagon, the handyman’s van — they got a free pass.
Bowie played a final encore — blom blom bla blom blom — and turned up the driveway of one of the big estates. Two poodles ran up to greet him, wagging their little tail stubs, then dashing away again to their pillows on the porch of the gigantic mansion. Bowie strolled farther down the driveway, shot out the tires in the two BMWs — chuk chuka chuk chuk — and let himself into the caretaker’s shack where his father lived. Bowie had recently moved in with his father after a few problems back in Maryland with his mother and his stepfather, who Bowie called the stepemeff — the last problem being that Bowie had borrowed the stepemeff’s brand new Landrover and tried to drive it to California. Unfortunately, Bowie had run out of gas in Gaithersburg. He’d just wanted to see the real world, that’s all.
So after a lot of ugly screaming about attitude, about stealing — but, talk about attitude, it was the stepemeff who was always in Bowie’s face — well, anyway, they sent Bowie to live with his dad in California where, it turned out, the world didn’t seem too real, either. At least, not in this ritzy-titzy neighborhood.
There was no pickup truck outside the caretaker’s shack. His father wasn’t home yet.
Bowie went straight to the closet. From behind the mud boots, the stack of paint cans, the broom and mop and rusty old 22 rifle, Bowie lifted the guitar case and opened the lid.
For a music machine, it didn’t look like much. It was so old, it didn’t even have a pick guard. His father’s playing had worn a rough semi-circle through the varnish below the strings so that it looked like a rat had been chewing on it.
But it sounded nice. Rich, mellow, confident somehow like it was so old, it didn’t have to prove itself. Inside the body it said:
CF MARTIN & CO
NAZARETH, PA.
Nazareth. That was where Jesus grew up. Jesus of Nazareth. And Jesus’ father — what was his name? Joseph, yeah. Joseph was a carpenter, right? Maybe Joseph built this guitar.
It looked old enough, anyway.
Bowie’s father was a carpenter, too — Lefty Brown, left-handed carpenter and right-handed guitar player. Lefty was a little strange about that old Martin. He kept it hidden in the back of the closet as if it was some piece of junk he never used anymore. Then some days instead of going to work, he’d bring out the guitar and sit all day in the kitchen bending notes, blues style, plucking and strumming and singing so softly Bowie couldn’t make out the words. Other times, nights, Bowie would wake up and hear his father picking and moaning, sometimes all the way until dawn—not just singing but singing to somebody. To a memory, maybe. A ghost.
Scratched in script through the varnish on the back of the guitar somebody had written: Jimmy.
Weren’t you supposed to name your axe for a girl? BB King played Lucille.
Way up inside the body, if you held your eye to the sound hole and tilted so the light went in, more writing was visible stamped into the neck block, the dovetail part where it fit inside the body: 000-45
That was the model: Martin Triple-O Forty-Five. The neck was short. Only 12 frets. Every other guitar Bowie ever saw had 14 frets above the body. But then, every other guitar Bowie had ever touched didn’t sound as nice as this one.
Sitting on the bed, Bowie picked out tunes. He’d never had a lesson. Right now he was working on something by a different Jim: Purple Haze. If Jimi Hendrix went acoustic, Bowie liked to think, he might’ve sounded like this.
Bowie played Jimi on Jimmy until his fingers got sore.
One night, soon after Bowie had first arrived, he’d slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen to listen to his father playing Jimmy. Lefty hadn’t seen him at first. Bent over the guitar, sort of muttering words, testing notes, stopping, picking again — he was making up a song. Bowie was sure his father was making up a song, but still Bowie asked, “What are you doing?”
His father looked up, annoyed. “Tuning.”
“I heard you playing.”
“Just testing.”
“What are you mad about?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Can I try it? Play it?”
“Mmm. Sure, man.” Lefty gripped the guitar tightly to his chest, narrowed his eyes, and studied Bowie from top to bottom. The words said Yes but the body said No.
Bowie reached out for the guitar.
His father still held it against his chest.
Bowie asked, “What’s the problem?”
“It’s okay, man. I’m just a little worried about you messing it up.”
“Messing it up? It’s already a wreck.”
“See? That shows what all you know.”
“How much did you pay for that old thing?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“How much?”
“I didn’t pay. I traded a sixty-five Mustang with a bad tranny.”
“So it’s worth a broken car.”
“That’s right. Exactly.” Lefty slammed the guitar back into its case.
Bowie said, “What are you so mad about?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Look. Never mind. I don’t want to play the guitar.”
“It’s okay if you want to.”
“I don’t.” So Bowie had gone back to bed, and his father had gone into a mood and wouldn’t talk the next morning.
Bowie hated those moods. Ever since that night, whenever he heard his father picking, plucking, softly singing to the ghost in the kitchen, he pretended it never happened — even when Bowie knew Lefty had stayed up strumming all night. And when Bowie got a chance to be alone and play the guitar himself — and he played it a lot — he never said a word to his father.
Breaking away from his memories, back in the present, Bowie carefully returned the Martin to the case, the case to the closet, tucking it behind the boots and paint cans, the broom and mop and rifle so it looked as if he’d never touched it.
No sooner was the guitar back in the closet than Bowie heard the wheezing of the pickup as it rattled to a stop. He went outside. Seeing his father unloading scraps of lumber, Bowie without a word started to help.
When the scraps were stacked in a pile, his father said, “Thanks, man. What kind of trouble are you in now?”
“Aw, Pop.”
“When you help without me even asking, you got trouble, man. What happened?”
“Suspended. For one day.”
“Mmm. Why, man?”
“Smiling. At Lipinski.”
“They don’t suspend you for smiling.”
“With Lipinski, they do. They said I was disrupting class. They’re scared of me.”
His father was a big man, bigger than Bowie. Now Lefty was rubbing his chin, thinking, as he said, “Sometimes, man, I’m scared of you, too. Scared you’ll do something really stupid.”
“I won’t. He gave me homework. Lipinski. He said I have to make a friend.”
“You done it yet?”
“No.”
“You got anybody in mind, Bowie?”
“No. They’re all bought.”
Lefty frowned. “If they’re bought, it’s because you’re buying it. All you think about is how much money they have.”
“Well. Still. They have it. They think this is the real world. Real life.”
“They’re people, Bowie. To them it's real. They have bigger houses? Better clothes? They’re human beings, man. What do you think is real life? Gangstas?”
Bowie shrugged. Not gangstas—they were bought, too. Everybody, bought. Bowie kept it to himself because he knew it would sound stupid but here it is: Real life isn't something you buy. Real life is tough and has a funky smell.
“You can do it, man,” his father said. “Make a friend. We could use a few.” Lefty stretched his arms back, making a circular shrugging motion, trying to loosen his shoulder and warm it up from an old injury. “You know what? Maybe I’ll make one, too. We can both do your homework.”
* * * five * * *
You can’t touch a nebula, Hoot was thinking the next morning as he walked to school. He was walking along San Francisquito Creek, a playful, gurgling little gully of green. On one side of the creek was a vast parking lot surrounding Stanford Shopping Center. On the other side were quiet yards, lazy oak trees, the comfy suburban houses of Menlo Park.
Today Hoot walked on the shopping center side, not because he liked the acres of asphalt but because he'd fallen into the habit years ago when his father was in Stanford Hospital, a little farther up the creek, just beyond the shopping center. After his father died, Hoot continued using the same path for reasons he didn't bother to analyze, reasons of memory, of loyalty, of loss.
The path meandered behind the Ronald McDonald House, a cheerful-looking place where families stayed when their child had leukemia or brain cancer. At one point the path passed a monument, a stone tablet memorializing the death by typhoid of a fifteen-year-old boy: Leland Stanford, Junior.
“Death Breathing Stillness
and Sadness Around.
And Is it not Is it not
Haunted Ground.”
June 21, 1883
In grief over that boy’s death, his parents had founded Stanford University.
A moody place. A lovely walk among the trees, the wild oats, the flowering vines, the burbling water where ducks would swim and herons would wade. A place to make your own problems seem very small.
Eventually the path led to a footbridge over the little canyon of the creek, from which Hoot could walk the final few blocks to Arbor Middle School. Today, waiting at the footbridge, was one of those very small problems. Ivan Gold. Blocking.
“Uh. Excuse me,” Hoot said.
Ivan glared — and stood there with legs spread, one hand on each rail. The troll.
The little creek trickled in the gulley below them. Hoot could climb down the rocks, jump the water, then climb the other side. But Ivan would just stand at the top, waiting.
“What’s that in your hand?” Ivan taunted. “Your water collection?”
Hoot was carrying a brown portfolio tied with a string.
“What’s it to you?” Hoot asked.
“Oh are you threatening me?” Ivan said, and he crossed his arms across his chest. A big chest. Ivan was built like a gas pump: Solid, square, explosive.
Who gave you that black eye, Ivan? Did you try to pick on somebody your own size?
“I didn’t threaten you,” Hoot said.
“Hoot How-w-w-ward. He’s a cow-w-w-ward.”
That coward thing. It had hung over Hoot ever since fourth grade when he’d burst out crying so many times — not because he was scared, exactly, but because his father was dying. Howard, coward. Once they stick a label on you in this world, you can never peel it off.
“So what do you want, Ivan?”
“Guess.”
“You want money?”
“Good idea. Gimme some money.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You can search me.”
“Bring it tomorrow. Bring twenty dollars.”
“I don’t have twenty dollars.”
“Then get it.”
“I’m not giving you money.”
“Too bad.”
The creek gurgled. A squirrel hopped halfway up the bridge behind Ivan’s back and stopped, head cocked, studying Ivan, wringing its hands.
Hoot tried telepathy: Bite him on the leg, squirrel. Give him rabies.
The squirrel ran away.
So much for telepathy. Hoot tried politeness: “Will you get out of my way, please?”
“Not yet. I have to do something first.”
“What?”
“I have to beat you up.”
Ivan gripped Hoot by the arm and jerked him forward as the brown portfolio fell at his feet.
“Why?” Hoot shouted, shaking his arm, twisting. “Why do you want to beat me up?”
Ivan held on tight. “Because it’s your turn.”
Ivan grabbed Hoot’s other arm. Hoot kicked at Ivan’s leg, missed. Ivan scowled.
Now he’s gonna hit me, Hoot was thinking. This is gonna hurt.
“Hey.”
The voice came from the far side of the bridge. Hoot and Ivan both looked up.
Bowie Brown. Big Bowie Brown.
“Leave him alone, Ivan.”
Ivan let go of Hoot’s arms. He punched Hoot once, hard, in the temple. Then in a flash he bent down, snatched the portfolio, and ran.
Oh no.
Not the portfolio. Hoot felt an explosion in his heart. He ran after Ivan — begging his legs to move faster — but after a minute he had to give up. Ivan was too big. Too fast.
Bowie, loping along, stopped at Hoot’s side. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Hoot’s head hurt. In his pain he saw a big purple circle in front of his eyes, rotating like a planet. Shrinking.
“That guy’s dangerous,” Bowie said, staring in the direction where Ivan had disappeared. “What did he want?”
“He stole my waterfalls.”
“Waterfalls?”
“Drawings.”
“What does he want with them?”
“He told me to give him twenty dollars.”
“Like, he’s holding them for ransom?”
“I doubt it. He’s … Ivan. You know. He destroys things. He plays with matches.”
Years of hikes. Years of drawing. Starting with a hike Hoot had taken with his father up this same San Francisquito Creek, wading, hopping from rock to rock, exploring for miles finding mini-waterfalls with tiny fish darting in pools, crayfish waving claws, bullfrogs croaking, turtles sunbathing on sandbars.
Bowie said, “I’ll see if I can get ’em back. Tomorrow. Break his locker.”
“Tomorrow’s too late. He could be burning them right now. Can you do anything today?”
“Don’t you know? I’m suspended. One day.”
“What for?”
“Smiling. At Lipinski. Playing air guitar. In Plattly’s.”
“Wow, you’re a criminal.”
“Yeah. Right.” Bowie grinned.
I said something right, Hoot thought. He doesn’t think I’m a quirk.
Hoot didn’t know Bowie, but he’d seen the big guy hulking around school. In fact, Hoot had been one of the witnesses — among dozens — when Bowie was the new guy, when on his very first day in a new school some kid with cool shoes had tried to razz Bowie about the beat-up old boots he was wearing, razzing which had little effect until the kid made the mistake of saying Boogie Lips and then flew — like a leggy water balloon — into the bleachers. Like the other witnesses, Hoot heard the splat. But Hoot may have been the only one to notice the look of horror and regret on Bowie’s face.
Bowie was just a little guy trapped in a big body. Hoot could see that. Couldn’t everybody?
Hoot asked, “You play guitar? For real?”
“Yeah. Some.” Bowie shook his head, grimacing. “Burning waterfalls. Holy snotburger.”
“Ivan Gold is worm excrement.”
“Yep.” Bowie smiled again. “Exactly. Excrementburger.”
Another right thing. Hoot was on a roll — although he felt he should give Jaz credit for the words.
Bowie pointed a thumb in the direction Ivan had disappeared. “He gives you any more, uh, excrement, you tell me, okay?”
Was this an offer of friendship? Bowie was a loner — a quirk, too, in his own way — clumsy and raw, six foot three.
“Thanks, Bowie.”
“Yeah, man. No problem.”
* * * six * * *
Bowie was grounded. Home alone. Not allowed to set foot outside. His father had said a one day suspension was a punishment — not a holiday — even if it was for something as stupid as playing air guitar in the classroom and then smiling in the office of Lipless Lipinski.
“Stay indoors, and scrub the kitchen floor.”
As soon as his father had driven off to work in the wheezy old pickup, Bowie had gone outside. The landlord’s poodles had escorted Bowie to the edge of the property, then watched, heads cocked, worried, wishing they could follow, as Bowie had walked down the street.
Bowie had ambled down the winding streets of Atherton where gigantic houses were hidden behind hedges and rock walls. He'd crossed into Menlo Park where the streets were straight, the houses less private, until he happened to reach the footbridge over San Francisquito Creek. He'd seen Ivan and Hoot, and he'd scared Ivan away. Some day, Bowie knew, he and Ivan would fight. And Ivan would probably win. Ivan liked fighting.
Actually, Bowie didn’t want to spend the whole day outside. He’d just wanted to make a point. He wasn’t sure what the point was, but he knew he’d made it, so he went home and scrubbed the floor while playing records—vinyl records, moldy-smelling—on the dusty old turntable that his father kept around and never used. The stereo was a relic from ancient times before Bowie was even born, but it sounded good. Same with the records. Jimmy Reed. Skip James. Nobody ever heard of these guys. Mississippi John Hurt, his favorite.
For a couple of hours, Bowie played his father’s guitar. Without even thinking about it, Bowie discovered that he’d made up a song. The chorus went:
Run, run,
across the track
Sky is yellow
earth is black
Cold wind
hard steel
Got to find
where life is real.
Where’d that come from? Bowie wondered.
He put away the guitar, feeling the need to make a point again — something about cold wind, hard steel.
So Bowie went outside. He walked the same route as before, but this time he crossed the footbridge and continued beyond, to the busy road at the edge of the Stanford University campus. At an intersection in a line, three cars had stopped for a red light:
Acura.
Buick.
Corvette.
Hmm. A new game. Bowie leaned against a lamppost. Green light. A minute later:
Dodge Dakota
Double D, extra credit.
Escort, Ford.
Two letters in one car, another extra credit.
Grand Am.
Honda.
Isuzu.
Jeep.
Waiting for K. Five more cycles of the light, and then a little red
Karman Ghia.
Two green lights later:
Lexus.
Now quickly:
Mercury,
Nissan,
Oldsmobile,
Pontiac.
Uh-oh. Q. Hang on, Bowie. Something will come. And, twenty green lights later, something did:
Quattro.
Soon came
Reliant.
Subaru.
Taurus.
And then…what?
Bowie was stumped. He couldn’t think of a single make or model of car that started with U. Not even if he included trucks, tractors, motorcycles. But maybe something would come. Something he’d never heard of.
So he waited two hours, and no U-car passed by. Two hours. Dreamy. Like watching television. Or sitting in school.
Am I some kind of nut to be waiting all this time for a U? I mean, who cares?
But Bowie knew he cared. These things are important in a way you can’t explain.
He started walking. He entered the university campus, passing among brainiacs on bicycles. And a world of cars. Nobody stopped him. He was as big as a college student. Not as smart, maybe. Not as wealthy. You had to be rich to pay for a place like this. Wandering, Bowie saw
Volkswagen,
Wagoneer,
XKE Jaguar,
and then a broken down yellow
Yugo.
Finally, four blocks later, parked in front of a fraternity house:
Z-28 Camaro.
Bowie had that mixed feeling like when you win at Solitaire but know you cheated. No U. There has to be a U.
Parked next to the frat house under an oak tree sat an old car covered with leaves. Abandoned. The tires were flat. The headlights were empty sockets. A Citroen. An ugly car. Something about that shape like a turtle with a broken shell. Citroen. Ugly, ugly, ugly. And that’s my U, Bowie decided.
Ugly. A Citroen Ugly.
Now he had them all. A good feeling. For one day at least, life was real.
Bowie turned to walk home, took one step — stopped — for no reason, no reason whatsoever except just for the joy of it — picked up a rock about the size of a baseball — and threw it as hard as he could toward the Ugly.
The windshield shattered.
“Hey you!” A head leaning from a window. “That’s my car!”
A dozen bodies poured out of the fraternity house. At least they didn’t beat him up too much — just shook him around a little, spat on him, punched his nose, then called the cops. Bowie rode home in the back of a police car. Home to his father.
There’d be some explaining to do. And no explanations to give. I’m not like Ivan Gold, Bowie was thinking. I don’t try to be bad. I never want to be mean. And yet here I am where Ivan Gold belongs — in the back of a police car (Ford Crown Victoria). Steel cage between Bowie and the driver. Radio sputtering.
Wow, you’re a criminal, Hoot had said.
Maybe Hoot was right.
* * * seven * * *
Ivan Gold was in his usual seat at the back of Biology, combing his hair. Hoot still hurt — sort of a ringing headache — from when Ivan had punched him. Drop it, Hoot told himself. Don’t fall into his trap. But he couldn’t help it — he wanted those drawings.
Ivan glowered — the fading black eye seeming to darken — as Hoot walked up to him.
Be polite, Hoot told himself. It won’t work to make demands. “Could I please have them back?”
“Twenty dollars,” Ivan said.
“Here.” Hoot held out a twenty-dollar bill.
Ivan snatched it. “I thought you didn’t have any money.”
“I didn’t. It was in my locker.”
“You said you couldn’t get—”
“I forgot.”
“Yeah. Sure. You forgot.” Ivan put the money in his pocket.
“Now let me have the drawings.”
“One small problem.” Ivan tilted back on his stool.
“What?”
“I don’t have them.”
“Where are they?”
“Probably about half way to the bay by now.”
“What did you do?”
“This school. You know, they really should keep more toilet paper in the bathrooms. When you gotta wipe, you gotta wipe, you know. You tear those drawings in half, and then you tear each half in half, and then they’re just the right size. A little scratchy, but hey — better than nothing. And then I flushed. Each one. Around and around the bowl it goes. Then gone. Bye-bye.”
Hoot felt sick.
The bell rang.
Hoot sat down. Jasmine McGuire leaned from her stool and whispered: “I haven’t collected any nebulae yet. Cloudy last night. I have a telescope, you know. My father made it.”
Hoot nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“Did you bring your waterfalls?”
He forced the words out: “They’re gone.”
“Gone! How could a waterfall be gone?”
“The drawings.” His voice cracked. “Gone.”
“Where?”
“Ivan. He flushed them down … the toilet.”
Jaz looked stunned, then stricken, all in the space of a moment. Then in another moment she was off her stool and standing in front of Ivan shouting “You’re a dick, Ivan Gold! You’re cruel and you’re stupid and somebody must have raised you wrong all your life to make you such a dick and I bet your father’s a dick, too. I bet your mother’s a dick.”
“Hey,” Ivan said. “You shut up about my mother.”
“Your grandmother’s a dick. And you’re the biggest—”
Mimi Bucher was laughing. “You can’t call his grandmother a dick.”
“Yes I can! His whole family must be dicks and all his ancestors must be—”
Mimi Bucher shook her head, giggling. “Don’t you know what a dick is?”
“Of course I know!”
Mr. Bullhack strode into the room. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Ivan!” Jaz shouted.
Mr. Bullhack frowned. “We use proper names in this class, Miss McGuire. Now tell me please, Miss McGuire, what is it about Mister Gold?”
Miss McGuire shouted: “Mister Gold is a dick!” Then she ran out the door to the hall.
Mr. Bullhack stared after her as if she’d left a vapor trail.
Jasmine McGuire was always running out of rooms. Teachers generally learned not to say anything about it because in a few minutes she would calm down, come back, sit down as if nothing had happened.
“Miss McGuire,” Mr. Bullhack remarked, rubbing his cheeks, “has never had an unuttered thought.”
Soon Jaz returned — without apology — slipped herself silently onto her stool and uttered no more thoughts until after the final class of the day when she appeared at Hoot’s locker and said, “It means ‘jerk.’ Right?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Then what’s so funny about calling his grandmother a jerk?”
“You didn’t say ‘jerk’.”
“Why can’t I—”
“Do you know what a dick is?”
“A jerk. A mean person.”
“Jaz. Listen. ‘Dick’ means ‘penis’.”
Jaz turned a solid scarlet. “I said that? I called him that? In front of Mr. Bullhack and everybody? That’s a nickname for ‘Richard.’ Why do they call it a Richard? Does it look like Richard? Richard Underwood?”
Richard Underwood was fat, almost as round as he was tall, with red ears that stood out straight from his head. The ears wiggled when he chewed.
Hoot considered. She must have seen pictures at least. They’d all had Sex Ed, for what it was worth. Didn’t she at least have a brother or something? “Jaz, haven’t you ever seen a real —”
“No no no no no no no!” Jaz closed her eyes, covered her ears with her hands, and sang in a loud voice to the tune of MacArthur Park:
“Someone left a snake out on a chain,
I don’t think that I can shake it,
’cause it took so long to fake it,
and I’ll never have that redwood tree again…”
Hoot got the message: She did not want to speak of this subject. Ever again.
“Jaz…”
She opened her eyes, uncovered her ears.
“Jaz, if you’re gonna sing the worst song in the history of the world, you could at least get the words right.”
“If it’s the worst, wouldn’t it be better if I got the words wrong?” Jaz looked down at her feet and danced a little jig-step.
Hoot watched, wondering how she could move her feet so fast. And why did she want to? And why right here in the hall in front of his locker? Not that he minded — he just had the feeling with Jaz that nothing was ever at rest. Like a hummingbird, he thought. Even when she’s holding still in the air, her wings are beating a hundred times a second. And then — zoom. Gone like a shot.
She stopped dancing. Looked up from her feet. “Your waterfalls aren’t lost,” she said, catching her breath. “You still have your collection. You just don’t have your drawings. Nobody can take what you’ve done — where you’ve been — away from you. That’s why it’s such a cool idea. That’s why I want to collect nebulae.”
“You’re going to a nebula?”
“I told you. I’ve got a telescope.”
Hoot had never known a girl with a telescope. Probably no other girl in the school had one. Jaz was different. A quirk. Uncool.
From outside came a blast of trombones and tubas — the marching band. It was time for the football parade. Everyone was supposed to watch the band and cheer the team.
“You going?” Jaz asked.
“No.”
“Me neither. It’s so stupid. Why do they have a football parade? Why don’t they have an astronomy parade? I’d go to that.”
“Me, too,” Hoot said.
Jaz’s eyes — always wide — widened further. “You like astronomy?”
Waterfalls, nebulae, and parades. They had a lot to talk about. It seemed Hoot had made another friend, the second in one day. Maybe eighth grade wouldn’t be so bad.
As Hoot and Jaz were talking, Mimi Bucher was watching among a group of friends from several lockers away. Her eyes jumped from Jaz to Hoot, back and forth. She smiled, flipped back her hair, and resumed talking to her friends.
* * * eight * * *
Jaz skipped along the sidewalk toward home. It was a short journey. Her house was just a block from Arbor School. In her mind were pictures — a whole movie — of the world’s first astronomy parade. There’d be a Hubble observatory on wheels. A crab nebula float. A comet made out of fireworks. A meteor shower — somebody could toss handfuls of meteors with crepe paper streamers into the crowd. The marching band would play Rocket Man. They’d need celebrities: she’d invite Carl Sagan to ride in an open convertible — except maybe he was dead. Stephen Hawking, then. And ET. And Captain James Picquard. And a black hole — but how could you put a black hole on a float?
Still puzzling over the black hole problem, she skipped to her front door — and froze. On the black door, red spray paint:
FUK
YU.
Jaz drew in a breath and then couldn’t let it out. Her chest was paralyzed.
She stood on the front stoop, trying to hide the door with her thin little body. For the first time ever, she wished she were fat. She could only hide part of it:
F K
U
or
UK
U
or
FU
Y
Classmates walked by, gaping, moving on. Jaz whispered to herself: “Three hundred seventeen thousand two hundred and one, three hundred seventeen thousand two hundred and two…”
Somebody wanted to dip her — or her family — deep in Hell.
What have we done?
In a dresser drawer in her own bedroom Jaz found an old sheet. It had a star pattern, yellow on a blue background. Draping it over the door, it covered the FUK YU and fluttered, rippling stars. Again she sat on the front stoop, now a vibrant Milky Way porch. She would guard the stars. And whisper: “Three hundred seventeen thousand three hundred and one …”
At 317,538 the big van pulled into the driveway. Her mother, her little sister.
The police came, saw, shrugged, shook their heads. Vandals. Random. A shame. Kids these days. What can you do.
Jaz’s mother taught chemistry at the community college. On lab days, her clothes carried the odors home with her. Today, Jaz smelled acid. But also she detected sulfur in the air. Sulfur had come to their house like a curse.
Her mother said, “I try to protect you children. There’s a lot of bad stuff in the world, and I try to keep it away from you. But sometimes, the bad stuff breaks right in.” Mrs. McGuire spoke good English, idioms and all, but if you paid attention you’d hear a trace of China. She’d come to the USA when she was five.
Jaz said, “It’s not your fault, Mom.”
Her mother looked worried. “I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could kiss it and make it better.”
Mothers. The magical healing power of parent spit.
At this point, the best her mother could offer was warm milky chamomile tea, and it seemed to have some of the same healing power. Jaz went upstairs and into her room to be with Lucille, her giant stuffed bear. A telescope stood on a tripod next to the window.
Jaz peered under the bed. Cassiopeia, the Siamese cat, was cowering among the dust bunnies. From the window the cat had seen the vandal, the paint. The cat was terrified.
Cassiopeia needed parent spit.
Jaz considered crawling under the bed and kissing the cat.
Instead, she counted from 317,539 to 317,600 — even — so she’d be at a better stopping point, and then she pulled the Oxford Book of Christmas Carols from the shelf and started flipping through pages. It was another thing Jaz collected. Carols. Old ones. Basically, they were folk songs from one hundred, three hundred, sometimes even a thousand years ago when the stars, the planets, the entire universe was younger, brighter, cleaner.
Oh holy night. The stars are brightly shining…
There was too much ugliness on the planet, and the ugliness had come right to her house. If only she had someone she could talk to. Besides Jesus, that is. A friend. Not a mother, not a little sister. A friend, an actual person her own actual age who would actually listen like Nina actually used to do. Nina, once her dearest closest friend, now surrounded by boys, would pass Jaz in the hall without even saying Hi. Nina always had to be first. First to go to Disneyland, first to have pubic hair, first to tell Jaz she should grow up. Bodies change. Friends change. Vandals paint FUK YU.
She could use a little Christmas. Right now. Humming.
Glorrrrrrrrrria. In excelsis deo.
Then, book in hand, Jaz stood up and sang. Her voice wavered at first but soon found its strength from the words.
And Heaven and nature sing.
In her room with Cassiopeia the terrified cat and Lucille the giant stuffed bear, Jaz lifted her song to the ceiling and to Jesus Himself, almost screaming, wishing — demanding — joy to the whole wide world.
* * * nine * * *
“You’re gonna have to work this off,” Lefty said in his raspy voice. “You’re big enough. You can work for me.”
“What’ll I do?” Bowie asked.
“First,” Lefty said, “you’ll look me in the eye.”
Ever since he’d stepped out of the police car, Bowie had been staring at his toes. He raised his gaze past the blue jeans spattered with paint, the hand with one knuckle wrapped in a bandage, the broad shoulders and wide neck to meet the clear unblinking eyes of his father: Lefty Brown, the left-handed carpenter.
“You’ll dig holes,” Lefty said. A voice with nails and sawdust. “Mix concrete. Carry stuff. Heavy stuff. Sweep up garbage and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you bang some nails. It’s hard. It’s dirty. But you’re big enough. If you didn’t slouch so much, you’d almost be bigger than me. I swear, Bowie, every ten minutes you’re an inch taller and a mile farther away.”
Lefty had called the owner of the Citroen and offered to pay for a new windshield. The owner was satisfied; the cop was satisfied. Then Bowie was alone with Lefty. They stood face to face in the hallway by the front door. One thing Bowie knew: Lefty would not hit him. His father had never hit him.
Lefty was calculating. “It’ll take about … mmm … fifty hours to work off that windshield. You can start this weekend. Saturday.”
“Is that legal?”
“No. You’re too young to be legal or I would’ve put you to work already, but now I’ve gotta do something with you. You gonna report me?”
“No. I just…”
“What’s the matter? You too good for that kind of work? Hey, I do it, Bowie. It pays your living, fella.” Lefty folded his big arms across his big chest. “So what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“Why, Bowie? Why’d you do it?”
“I dunno. I thought it was junk. I didn’t know somebody was planning to restore it. It was just … ugly.”
“Oh, man. Bowie, you’re too big now. You’re big enough to be dangerous.”
“Yeah. They’re scared of me.”
“Who?”
“Teachers. Lipinski. That asshole.”
“Hey!” Lefty poked a finger — with a bandaged knuckle — into Bowie’s forehead. “There will be no more cussing from you. No smirking. No slouching. You want to slouch, you fill out a Slouching Request Form. In triplicate. Got that? Same for smirking. In triplicate, mind you. It’s time to lay down some rules around here. Time for some boot camp. In the last two weeks you’ve been suspended twice and now they just brought you home in a police car. And by the way I agree with your opinion about Lipinski but from now on you will call him Mister Lipinski and you will not cuss unless you hear me cussing first, and even then you'll have to submit a PRF.”
“A what?”
“Profanity Request Form.”
“In triplicate?”
“Exactly. When I give an order, you’ll do it. Got that?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it with feeling.”
“Yes, sir!”
“From now on, when I say ‘Shit,’ you say ‘Where, what color, and how high, sir!’ Got that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I want you to promise you won’t throw any rocks. Not one single rock. Will you promise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t say it unless you mean it.”
“I mean it. Sir.”
“This is a test. This is something that’s completely under your control. You throw a rock, you can’t say somebody made you do it. This will show me whether you really want to stay out of trouble. Okay? You still promise?”
“No rocks. I promise.”
“You ever break another promise to me, I swear, I don’t know what I’ll do. I trusted you, man. I grounded you and look what happened. Please don’t let me down again. Or I just can’t deal with you anymore.”
There it was, the threat: If you let me down, if you throw one rock, if I decide I can’t trust you, then you’ll have to go stay with your mother again. Your mother and the stepemeff.
I'd rather drink gasoline and eat red-hot charcoal than live with them again.
“Uh, Pop?”
“What, man?”
“Are there any cars that start with a U?”
Lefty wrinkled his brow. “Unic. A French car. But they don’t make ’em anymore. Not for a long, long time.” He brushed a hand through his hair, combing out sawdust. “And there’s the UAZ. Russian. It’s a truck, a four by four, solid as a tank.” He scratched his dirty neck. “And don’t forget the Unimog. It’s a Mercedes — a pickup on steroids. Why?”
“Nothing.” Amazing, the things you could learn from this guy.
“Now go to your room, Bowie. You may not come out for the rest of the night.”
“What if I need to go to the bathroom?”
“You fill out a URF. Urinary Request Form.”
“What if it's...”
“Defecation Request Form. Legible. With correct spelling and grammar. Location. Color. Height.”
“Yes, sir.”
His father folded his arms across his chest. Big carpenter arms. “It'll have a time limit. Five minutes.”
“What if I need more time, sir?”
“Defecation Extension Form.” Lefty cracked a smile. “So how’d it feel, being on a college campus?”
Bowie shrugged. “Like I didn’t belong.”
“One day, you’ll belong. You’ll go to Berkeley. When your brain catches up with your body.”
“Why Berkeley?”
“I went there. Didn’t finish — stuff happened — but I went for a while. You’ll finish.”
“I thought Berkeley was for smart people.”
“And just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean… Lot of good it did you.”
“Hey. We can’t all be bankers. Don’t worry. You’ll go to college. You’re smart. Grades good. Behavior sucks.”
“What about your behavior, Pop? Is that what happened?”
Lefty frowned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I was like you. My brain hadn’t caught up with my body. And then Uncle Sam told me to go kill people. And I went, but I wasn’t very good at it. And then we lost the war, so it was probably all my fault.”
“You killed people?”
Lefty rubbed his forehead, saying nothing.
“So — Pop — is that why you quit college? To join the Army?”
“I’d already quit. Long story.”
“Tell me.”
Lefty scowled. “Some day.”
Bowie grabbed two cold drumsticks and a glass of milk and took them to his room.
Later, he returned to the kitchen with chicken bones and an empty glass.
Lefty was seated at the table with the old guitar, Jimmy, on his lap.
Bowie asked, “What are you singing?”
“Nothing. I'm tuning.”
“I heard you.”
“Maybe a little singing.”
“Who you singing to?”
“Nobody.”
Always, the same answer. His father pressed fingers flat over the strings like dampers. There was that look on his face. The trance.
Bowie plucked a banana from the bowl and returned to his room. He might as well stay away from the kitchen. Lefty had a mood.
Lifting the mattress, Bowie plucked out the pencil box. Years ago his father had made it for him out of cedar, a small box with brass hinges and just enough room for a pen and a pencil — but these days, Bowie put it to a different use. Engraved on the lid it said B BROWN. Inside, nestled in the cedar cavity, instead of pencils there were four fat doobies.
Submitting a Doobie Request Form, sir. Not that his father had any idea. What Lefty didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Opening a window for fresh air, Bowie lit up. Ah, the crackle — he loved that little sound as you suck deeply on a joint. Laying back on the bed he vowed: From now on, I’m gonna be an angel. No rocks. No swearing. No disruptions, no disrespect — sucking again, the crackle again, blowing a stream of smoke — from now on, I’ll give you where, what color, and how high. Sir.
* * * ten * * *
Bowie was walking to school, alphabetizing cars —
Accord,
BMW,
Chevy,
Datsun,
Electra,
Fairlane
— when the first rock passed with a hissing sound about six inches from his left ear. Bowie whipped his head around, searching.
Across the street, Ivan Gold threw again.
Bowie ducked behind a parked car.
Geo.
What could he do now? He couldn’t throw back. He’d promised.
Ivan cocked and threw a flat spinning stone that ricocheted off the roof of the Geo.
From his crouch Bowie wondered: How come when I throw a rock at an Ugly I get nailed for it, and when Ivan hits a Geo there’s nobody around?
Now a car was coming down the street.
Horizon, Plymouth.
Ivan had a flat rock, another skipper, but was holding his fire until the driver passed. Bowie stood up. “You better stop.”
“Make me,” Ivan said.
The Horizon passed. Ivan cocked. Bowie ducked. The rock hit the asphalt under the Geo and bounced — ow! — hitting Bowie on the ankle. Bowie hopped up holding the ankle in one hand and had just opened his mouth to shout when another rock, golf ball size, whistled through the air and slammed him on the neck. Ow! Bowie put a hand next to his adam’s apple. Blood. Meanwhile Ivan launched a swarm of pebbles that bounced off the Geo and stung where they hit Bowie on the forehead and arms and chest.
Another car was coming. Ivan picked up a rock the size of a lemon. Bowie shouted, “Ivan, what’s the point?”
“Jungle bunny!” Ivan shouted back.
Bowie froze. The car passed. Bowie followed it with his eyes, making a mental note, checking it off:
Impala, Chevy.
The rock caught Bowie just above the ear. He heard a thud echoing through his skull and felt as if his brain had been rattled in its cage. White flashes popped in front of his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t move.
Just for a moment.
Then the next thing he knew he was running across the street firing a small rock with his right hand while carrying a stone the size of a football in his left ready to smash Ivan’s eyeballs out of his head and Ivan oddly was standing there, frozen, gaping, mouth open, and in about two more steps Bowie would’ve had him—
But he never got the chance.
There was the screech of tires. A horn blasted. The front bumper of a green car caught Bowie at the knee. His legs flipped up as his shoulder was rammed back against the hood. The rock flew out of his hands. He rolled — actually had enough time to think I’m rolling — and at the same time realized why Ivan Gold’s eyes had been so wide. Bowie rolled one and a half times around and slammed against the windshield — and suddenly nothing moved.
There was no sound.
Bowie could smell burnt rubber from where the tires had skidded. A wiper blade was pressing into his arm. Through the windshield inside the car he saw a man frozen, mouth open, eyes wide and white and staring back at him.
Bowie wiggled his fingers, his toes.
He sat up and slid down onto the fender thinking: I’m still alive.
The car door opened. The man jumped out and stood over Bowie saying, “Don’t move! Where does it hurt? I’ll call an ambulance.” The man was wearing a blue shirt with a red necktie. He looked scared to death.
Bowie glanced around. Ivan Gold had disappeared.
Bowie’s leg was throbbing where the bumper had hit; his shoulder was sore where it had bounced off the hood; his head still rang from the rock. The man with the red necktie was asking again, “Where does it hurt?”
Bowie pushed himself off the fender and stood on the ground. No problem, standing. The car, Bowie noticed:
Jeep. Grand Cherokee Limited.
“I’m fine,” Bowie said, wincing. “Nothing hurts.”
“I’m glad you can move around,” the man with the red necktie was saying, “and maybe you don’t need an ambulance, but I want to take you to the emergency room. Or at least take you home. Your parents. Somebody needs to check you out.”
“No!”
“Why? Look — I’ll pay for it. You can’t —”
“I want to go to school. I don’t want to be late.”
“I can’t believe you’re not hurt. Maybe you just can’t feel it yet. You’re in shock. I’ll tell the school what happened, and then I’ll take you—”
“Please. No. Don’t bother. Nothing’s broken. It just hurts a little. It’s a bruise.”
“So you do hurt.”
“I’m fine. It just hurts, that’s all.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s just my leg.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m not gonna take off my pants in the middle of the street. Leave me alone. I’m going to school.”
“I’ll give you a ride. At least let me give you a ride to school.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you walking off after you’ve just—”
“I can walk off if I want.”
“You’ve just had an accident. I can’t let you—”
Bowie ran.
He found out with the first step that he had to favor the sore leg. Limping.
To Bowie’s surprise, the man ran after him. And even though the man was wearing those black leather shoes with the flat bottoms that don’t have any traction, he caught Bowie by the arm and pulled him to a stop.
“Come on back to the car,” the man said.
“No.”
“You’ve had an accident. I’m responsible. Now get in the car and I’ll—”
“I can’t take a ride with a stranger. First you want me to take off my pants, then you want me to get in your car. You better let me go, mister, or I’ll get you in a mess of trouble.”