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Therewas a scrawny kid with big, gray eyes watching us move in this morning, butIcan’t see him anywhere.Irun down the unfamiliar dirt road full of potholes and lined with overflowing trash cans.Allthe dogs tied to random trees and porches lose their shit asIpass, throwing themselves against their ropes and screeching like they want to kill me.
SinceIneed to pass time untilDadforgetsIexist,Iwalk out through the front gate under the weather-beaten ‘ParadisePeaks’ billboard and start exploring the neighborhood on the far side of the road.Sweatstains the armpits of my t-shirt, and my back hurts from carrying boxes that were too heavy for me.Imiss my buddies and my bike.Imiss my mom.
Thecigarette smoke reaches me first, bitter and intriguing.Fearlessly,Ifollow it around a spray-painted house with boards nailed over the windows.Fourboys are lounging against the back of a shed in a haze of smoke and other drug-smellsIdon’t recognize.Thepile of bikes on the ground pulls my eyes like a magnet.They’reso cool, with sturdy, colorful frames and fat tires that make me itch to take one off a jump.
Aguy with curly brown hair who looks about sixteen or seventeen lowers his bottle of beer, then elbows his buddies until they all shut up and stare at me.I’mnot even ten yet, butIcross my arms and watch them back like a challenge.
“Hey, little punk.”Thebrown-haired boy grins. “Younew around here?”
“Ijust moved intoParadise.”Ishould probably be nervous, but the only thing in the worldI’mscared of is my dad.WhenIcome closer, the guy offers me his beer.Itburns whenIswig, andIcough with my lips pressed together. “It’sboring around here.”
Oneof the others, aLatinoboy with aMetallicat-shirt, follows the direction of my stare. “Youlike our bikes?”
“Uh-huh.”Iogle the gleaming metal, drooling at the thought of gripping the thick, rubbery handlebars while the wind rushes through my hair.
Theyexchange looks, like they’re silently agreeing on something. “Wecould help you build one,” the first guy offers. “Ifyou want.”
“Forreal?”Myeyes go huge.I’mnot stupid–they’re going to want something back.Ijust don’t care what it is.It’snot likeIhave a reason to stay out of trouble. “WhatdoIgotta do?”
TheLatinoman glances at his friends, then shrugs. “Nothingmuch.Justhang out with us.”Heholds out a big, rough hand, andIshake it as firmly asIcan. “I’mPascal, and this guy isAlex.”
“Beckham.Beck.”Mom’sthe only person who ever bothered to call me by my full name.
“Goodto meet you,Beck.”Alexpunches my shoulder lightly. “Youlook like you’d be good at helping us run errands.Nobodywatches cute kids.”
“Yep.”Icrouch down and admire the angled-back bicycle seat, almost touching the rear tire.SometimeswhenI’msupposed to be in schoolIgo to the library instead and watch hours of dirt bike tricks onYouTube. “Ican fit a lot of candy in my pockets, orHotWheels.”Glancingover at their tattoos and tough bodies,Iadjust my offer. “Isteal cigs for my dad all the time, too.Andbooze.”
Alexbarks a laugh. “Goodkid.You’regonna fit right in.”
Idid fit in.Igot my bike, a shiny red one, and the three of us would ride to the skate park at night and do all kinds of stunts that should have gotten us killed.Eventually,Istopped running errands for them and started working for the guys above them.PascalandAlextaught me how to fight and shoot, listened to my problems, and let me ride along on jobs when my dad was on a bender.Scout–the gray-eyed boyIsaw across the street–became my best friend, but those two basically raised me.
Overten years later, when someone asks “Whydid you decide to join a gang?Whatpushed you over the edge?”,Ithink back on that hot, lonely afternoon, the bikes, the photo of my mom, and the only two menI’dever met who didn’t hit me and cuss me out.AndIdon’t know how to answer, because it’s always too simple and too complicated at the same time.
“Hurrythe fuck up,Beck.”Alexknocks warningly on the hood of the blackMercedes, with its tacky gold rims and detailing.
“Calmdown.Noone’s coming.They’retoo busy snorting coke off someone’s tits.”MakingsureIdon’t scrape the paint,Iwork my wedge further into the driver’s side door and hold my breath.Mylong, stiff rod slips through the gap and taps the button just right.
“Goodgirl,”Icroon as the door pops open all sweet in my hand.
WhatcanIsay?I’mgood at pushing all the right buttons.Alot of men would agree.
“I’mthe one who’s gonna get a bullet up my nose if they open that door,”Alexgripes from his lookout spot, pointing at the back entrance to theEuphoriaNightclub.
“Lookon the bright side.”Pascalhands me a small plastic box with a green light shining in one corner. “Youwouldn’t get those migraines anymore.”
Ilove hotwiring cars.Theytaught me how whenIwas twelve.Alexpopped open an old ‘87Camryin the back of a movie theater parking lot and knelt next to me with an arm around my shoulders, coaching me through the tangle of wires as my hands shook with excitement.Whenthe engine rumbled to life, he whooped and let me drive it a couple of miles before trading spots.Thesedays, it all comes down to this little box that turns me intoBeckhamAlexander, international super spy.
Carryingit toward the brick wall of the nightclub,Ivisualize the mapIsaw of the inside.Thecar’s owner, a boss from a rival gang pushing into our territory, should be enjoying himself in a room right on the southern corner.Withone eye onPascal,Iclimb behind a dumpster that’s in my way, ignoring the godawful smell and the skitter of a rat running away.
Fora minute,Ithink the relay isn’t going to pick up the signal from the key fob in the guy’s pocket. “Comeon,”Ibreathe, pressing it closer to the warm, crumbly brick.
“We’regolden,”Alexyells as the engine purrs to life.Nowwe just need to get it to the guys at our garage, who can rekey it permanently. “Getin, get in, get in,” he chants, yanking open the passenger door whilePascaldives in the back.
“Shouldn’twe change the plates?”Ipoint toward the fake plates with their white and green mountains sticking out ofPascal’sbag.
“Wecan do that anywhere but fucking here.”Alexis going to have an aneurism ifIdon’t start driving.
“Doyou think it has ass-warmers?”Iask, sliding into the driver’s seat and adjusting the mirrors as slowly as possible to troll him.Metalscreeches as the back door of the club creaks open. “Ohshit.”
