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He was in a group of five kids, four boys and a girl. Everybody but Ajax was clearly, unambiguously white.
Seeing that, Eight played through the images he’d encountered as he’d driven around. Most of the kids here were white. That probably correlated with loaded, come to think of it.
That said, at least in Ajax’s little group there on the grass, race didn’t seem to be a factor. They were all talking and laughing in the way of friends.
At that age, Eight hadn’t had a single friend. He’d been the angry troublemaker in the back of the room, wearing raggedly clothes and carrying an empty belly.
He’d found friendships of a sort when he started playing football, and decided not to give a shit about anything else, and learned to crack wise. By high school, his coaches made sure he had the food his so-called guardians withheld, so he wasn’t hungry so often. But he remained the angry troublemaker at the back of the room.
Ajax, with his great grades and his sports and music and art, and friends, was clearly on a different path. Good for him.
Stopping on the wide main walk, Eight watched his kid’s easy rapport with his friends.
Maybe it was a mistake, butting his thick head into the life Marcella had made for Ajax. Clearly, she was a great mom, and Ajax was a bright, happy, well-adjusted kid. Maybe all Eight had to offer was darkness and damage.
That doubt always throbbed in his chest, but just now, it hit him with enough force that he almost backed away and headed to the parking lot.
Then Ajax looked over and saw him. He smiled brightly and called, “Dad!”
He’d never called him that before. Eight stood frozen in place while that word rang like a church bell in his head.
But the kid was running to him, so he had to shake off whatever he was feeling. “Hey there!” he said and offered his fist for a bump. That was something they’d started after the first soccer game. “I guess your mom got word to you I was coming.”
“Yep. She’s doing band stuff. Can we go for pizza?”
He laughed. “Pizza again?”
“It’s the best. Can we?”
“Sure. You ready?”
Ajax’s bright grin faded. “Um, yeah, but … would it be okay … can I introduce you to my friends?”
The kid had asked him to meet a few ten-year-olds, but Eight felt nervous about it. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure.”
Ajax took his hand to draw him onto the grass. Eight felt the touch all the way up his arm. Jesus, what was goingonwith him these days?
“This is my dad!” Ajax said. “This is Emma, Bennett, Damon, and Rick.”
“Hey kids.” They all looked at him with expressions blending wonder, curiosity, and intimidation in various degrees.
The girl, Emma, a pretty little thing with a blonde ponytail and an athletic look about her, was braver than her male buddies. She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Hi, Mr. Lewis, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Eight gave her hand a short shake. “Hi. It’s good to meet you, too. But it’s Mr. Johnston, not Lewis.”
That seemed to confuse them all, but probably not as much as it would have if he’d told them to call him Eight Ball.
“Lewis is my mom’s last name, duh,” Ajax said.
Obviously, he had not talked much to his friends about Eight, and they all looked now like they had a million questions. Eight did not want to be in the middle of that convo, so he turned to Ajax and said, “You ready to go?”
“Okay, yeah. See you tomorrow, guys.”
“Bye, Jax!” his friends called in a chorus.
As Eight and Ajax headed to the parking lot, once they were clear of the mingling groups of kids, Eight said, “I thought you wanted to be called your full name.”
“I do, but everybody calls me Jax anyway, and it’s close enough. It’s easier than correcting everybody all the time, or explaining that I’m not named after cleaning stuff. In second grade there was a kid who used to call me Mr. Clean all the time, and that was hard. Jax is a pretty cool name, too.” He looked up at Eight. “But I like you to call me Ajax. That’s what my family calls me.”
