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  My partner had set that up for us. Every night for two weeks he went out there and threw pebbles at the Escalade to trigger the alarm. Mr. Christaldi was a heavy sleeper so it didn’t always wake him up. But the neighbors got so pissed off about it they made him turn off the alarm. The way we got into the Escalade was I jammed a screwdriver between the glass and the window frame in the backseat. Then I held a blanket over the window and my partner punched it with his elbow. Then I climbed through and forced the shift into neutral. The driveway was on a slope so it started to roll. But I could steer it because there was no steering wheel lock. They left that off because they were so sure of their antitheft key code thing. They f igured no one would ever get into the car in the f irst place. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment-type job. We did our research. We knew what we were doing.

  Once it was on the street, I had to jump out to help my partner push, then jump back in to steer. Back and forth like that till we got it all the way to that vacant lot.

  My partner had done a lot of research on Mr. Christaldi too, so he knew what time he went to bed every night and that he was a heavy sleeper. But there was one thing he didn’t know, which was that on that particular night, Mr. Christaldi’s ex-wife had called to tell him she was marrying someone else. So even though all the lights in his house were off, Mr. Christaldi was actually awake drinking scotch in the dark while we broke into his Escalade. He watched us through his living room window the whole time.

  So I was on my back hooking the Escalade up to the towline when I heard my partner say, “What the fuck?” in this really high voice.

  Then I saw Mr. Christaldi wobbling toward us, barefoot, in his pajamas. He was wicked drunk. He went right up to my partner, who had about six inches on him, and tried to punch him. But he missed by a mile. The second time he tried to punch him, he tripped over his own feet and hit the pavement. He stayed down there for a while on his hands and knees, panting like a dog with his big stomach hanging out of his pajamas. I was watching from under the truck, waiting to see what he was going to do.

  When he started to stand up, I could see my partner squaring up like he was gonna hit him this time. And I was like, no way man, don’t get up. Just stay down there. But I didn’t actually say that. I was basically hiding under that truck. Anyway, Mr. Christaldi was determined to get into something with my partner, I guess on account of being so drunk and not thinking straight.

  So he gets to his feet again and he’s swaying back and forth and squinting like he can barely see anything. Then he takes this sloppy swing at my partner, which misses completely. And that’s when my partner punches him, right on the side of the head. Mr. Christaldi jumps backwards like he’s about to fall and I keep waiting for him to hit the dirt, but his feet just keep moving real fast, like he’s running backwards.

  And I’m thinking, okay, that’s it. Let’s just go. Forget the stupid Escalade. The job is fucked. Then my partner starts looking around on the ground, and I’m thinking he’s looking for his keys, so I start to slide out from under the Escalade, thinking, good, let’s just blow this.

  But then I see Mr. Christaldi wobbling back to us, so I slide back under the truck.

  Now this time Mr. Christaldi takes his time setting up for a punch. He stands there like a boxer with his f ists in front of him, concentrating real hard like he’s waiting for the right moment. And that’s when I see the rock in my partner’s hand. That’s what he was looking for on the ground. Not his keys.

  I don’t know what he was thinking. I mean we chose that car because it was supposed to be easy. It was a no-contact-type boost. And it was set up perfectly. With the alarm disabled and everything. But still, I’m thinking—hoping, actually praying—that my partner’s just gonna use that rock to scare Mr. Christaldi, maybe just show it to him, get him to back off and go home. But he’s got other ideas.

  So while I’m lying under that truck, he reels back and bashes Mr. Christaldi on the side of the head.

  Mr. Christaldi spins all the way around on one foot, like a ballerina or something. Then he hits the dirt real hard and his head comes down right where my partner nailed him with that rock.

  My partner drops the rock in the back of the pickup truck, which is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. Then he tells me to hurry up and hook up the tow. Mr. Christaldi is lying right next to me. His eyes are closed and blood is oozing out of his head. Then my partner f inds another rock and slides it under his head like a pillow.

  And I’m thinking how’s that supposed to help? My partner has his sleeves pulled down over his hands like he’s trying to keep his f ingerprints off of it. At the time I was too freaked out to make sense of it, but I guess he was covering his tracks, trying to make it look like he landed on that rock.

  So I get the chain hooked up and everything else goes just like we planned, me steering the Escalade, my partner driving the pickup. As we’re driving away, I keep looking in the rearview mirror, trying to f igure out if Mr. Christaldi is breathing. But all I can see is his big stomach hanging out of his pajamas like a beach ball with half the air missing. And I can’t tell if it’s moving up and down or not because it’s too dark. Then we turn a corner and I can’t see him anymore.

  I close the notebook and sit back in my chair. Nobody says anything for a minute. They’re all sizing me up, seeing if I f linch.

  “So who’s this partner?” Barbie says eventually. “He got a name? He a friend of yours?”

  I turn to Dr. Horton. I had no time to strategize about my crime story this time around. With Ms. Jomolca scowling at me, I had to move that pen or else she’d know I was tap dancing around the truth. But then a funny thing happened. As soon as I brought that pen down on the paper, I realized I could tell the truth about that night. The truth was already out there thanks to Mr. Christaldi. Sure there was another guy, a white kid, a “giant.” That didn’t mean I had to write down his name. It was the perfect workaround. Nothing I wrote was a lie, and none of it put Healy in any danger.

  “Isaac,” Dr. Horton says. “Would you like to answer Barbie’s question?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “So you still hiding things,” Barbie says. “You still holding out on us.”

  “He’s protecting his partner’s identity,” Wayne says. “Ain’t that right? What did you do, take the rap for him or something?”

  I face Dr. Horton again.

  “You don’t have to reveal any names if you don’t want to,” Dr. Horton says. “That’s up to you. But you do have to answer your teammates’ questions. Even if the answer is, ‘I don’t want to answer that.’”

  “Okay,” I say. “Yeah, I took the rap for him.”

  “Why?” Riley asks.

  “He was eighteen. I was f ifteen when it happened.”

  “So you did him a solid,” Wayne says.

  “But why?” Barbie asks. “That’s what I want to know. Big risk you taking the rap for putting a guy in a coma. He is in a coma, right? Or did you lie about that too?”

  She’s so sure I’m holding out on her, like the story I just told isn’t enough. There has to be something even worse. I have to give the girl credit. Barbie Santiago knows a thing or two about the world. Whatever reason she had for icing that ponketo, Enrique Cabron, I’m sure it came on the heels of a long and storied youth in crime. Her instincts are sharp in the way only the street can sharpen them. But that doesn’t mean they can cut through Isaac West. There are things about me she’ll never know.

  “Nah,” I tell her. “That’s all true. He’s in a coma and it was my partner who put him there. Not me.”

  Barbie locks those amber eyes onto mine in a death grip I couldn’t have broken even if I wanted to. The temperature in the room goes way up, but only in that shaft of air between her and me. Then her mouth curls up in that half smile of hers, a smile that says “come here” and “fuck off” at the same time. And there’s t
hat gold tooth again. Man, how I hate that gold tooth.

  “All right,” she says. “Now we on to something.”

  Chapter 15

  The next day in computer class, I get an email from Janelle. She’s been using the computers at school and the library for years. She’s already a pro. Her school reports are expertly researched, perfectly spelled, and full of the same little charts and graphs Deon likes so much. She’s a master of extra credit. I’m still a newbie and I get stupid excited when I see her name in my inbox, like I must be breaking a rule reaching across time and space into the free like that just to talk to her.

  But then Stanley Huang comes over.

  “Work f irst,” he says. “Rule number one, remember?” He sits in the chair next to me, angles the laptop his way, and closes out my email window. Together, we slog through another session of word processing. They’re just words. What do they need to be “processed” for? About half an hour into it, Huang gets bored, lobs a few lame insults at me, then leaves me with a tutorial to do on my own, if I can “handle it.”

  I handle it by opening Janelle’s email the second Stanley Huang turns his back.

  I’m so glad you’re f inally on email. Now we can talk like every day. Yay! Okay don’t get mad. And don’t worry because I’m really okay, I promise promise, but I have to tell you that I’m not living with Mom anymore. I kind of ran away. Mom’s gone down the sinkhole again and I’m sorry to say that I am simply not going to stick around and take her crap anymore. She’s drunk all the time. Half the time she’s passed out. Doesn’t matter who’s knocking on the door. They’re coming all hours now looking for her. You know how they get. So I dumped her gin down the sink and oh my God when she f igured that one out she tried to hit me. Don’t worry though because she was so drunk she could barely see straight. She kept going on and on about the hammers in her head. You know how she does that. Then she broke the lock on my door. You know that padlock you got me? I came home from school and it was gone. The door won’t even close now. It just swings open. And you know I’m not staying there if I can’t even close the door. Right now I’m staying with Daniela. Her Mom said it was okay for a little while but she doesn’t want to get in trouble. She’s super strict but I think she likes me because I help with the baby, who’s two and a half and sooooo cute. I guess in a way it’s like my f irst babysitting job only instead of getting paid I’m getting food and a place to sleep. We have Cuban food every night and you would not believe it but rice can actually taste really good. I share a room with Daniela and her ten-year-old sister who’s always playing with my hair. The only thing I’m worried about is that Mom will call the police or show up at school and make me go home with her. I don’t want to start skipping school, but I’m not sure what to do. I can’t live with her anymore, Isaac. You know I can’t. You know I had to do this.

  “Um, Isaac? Did you f inish that tutorial?”

  It’s Huang, hanging over me like a shadow.

  “What? Yeah,” I lie.

  “The whole thing? It’s like half an hour long. At least. Probably more like an hour.” Huang stabs his skinny arms across my air space and taps at the keyboard. “You paused it. You’re not supposed to check email until you’ve done your work.” He makes sure this is loud enough for Mr. Klein to hear. Klein hears, but for some reason he doesn’t feel like making a big deal out of it. So I shoulder Huang’s hand away and type out a reply to my sister.

  hang on Janelle i’ll f igure something out, don’t worry stay with mrs rodriguez.

  Then, with both Huang and Mr. Klein eyeballing me, I settle in for another half hour of word processing.

  Chapter 16

  Out in the yard that day, I sit against the wall with my notebook open over my knees. I’m not writing anything, but if anyone’s looking (and hopefully no one is), I’ll look busy, rather than just alone. A kid sitting alone is an easy target. I’m thinking about Janelle. It’s better for her to be living with Mrs. Rodriguez than my mom. The lady sounds solid. If she’ll just let Janelle stay there for another nine days, that’ll be perfect. I’ll be home after that, so I can run interference between Janelle and my mother.

  When my mother goes down the sinkhole, she has a real mean streak, especially for Janelle. She hates Janelle. It doesn’t make any sense. Janelle is much nicer to her than I am. Plus she never gets in trouble at school. Maybe it’s jealousy, on account of Janelle being so pretty or so smart. Maybe my mother just blames Janelle for our father leaving. It was that second pregnancy that did him in, made him rethink the whole “family thing.” My mom loves telling that story.

  There’s a sudden outburst of swearing on the other side of the yard.

  Two half-court basketball games are on. The games are rough and dirty. There’s no referee. They referee themselves. And they don’t care about a stray elbow or two. Over by the foul line, I spot Cardo standing alone with his hands stuffed into the waistband of his red scrubs. The rest of the Disciples are watching the other game. I stuff my notebook in my waistband and make my way over.

  “Hey man,” I say. “I thought you were out of here. Didn’t you have your court date?”

  Cardo nods but he keeps his eyes on that game, like maybe he has money riding on it.

  “So what happened? Where’ve you been?”

  “Solitary.” He tears his eyes from the game just long enough for something to f lash behind them—rage maybe. Then it dies back down, like there’s no point to it. “It’s where they send you when you get bad news. So you don’t kill yourself.”

  Bad news? That could mean anything. A death in the family, something about his pregnant girlfriend. I wait for him to f ill me in, but Cardo just keeps watching that basketball game. It’s a mean one. The players charge through each other and hit the pavement like it’s nothing. “You’re still getting out of here, though, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m getting out of here. In about six months.”

  “Six months? Man, that sucks. Your girlfriend’s uncle gonna hold that job for you?”

  Cardo shakes his head. “In six months, I’m being tried as an adult. Facing thirty to life. At Walpers. It’s just like my man, Mig, says. Early release is for snowf lakes and pussies. Disciples they like to keep around.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t hassle me, brother. You don’t like how it sounds, take it up with the judge.”

  Over by the other game, the Disciples spot me with one of their own. Mig, the older one with the crescent-shaped scar, motions for them to follow, and they all start making their way over, slowly, spread out in loose clusters to take up as much space as possible. When Cardo sees them coming, he straightens up to his full height, about an inch taller than me. The Disciples form a ragged half circle at his back. Flavio Pendon, the guy who went after me in the cafeteria, looks like he’s ready for his rematch.

  “You on your own now,” Cardo tells me. “I can’t be holding your hand in here, no’m saying? If you smart, you get your own people, stop moping around all solo and shit.”

  Chuckles from the Disciples behind him, then some Spanish I can’t understand.

  “What’s up with that anyway?” Cardo says. “Even that child fucker O’Neil got peeps. Why don’t you hang with him?”

  More chuckles. Cardo’s warming up.

  “Why you don’t play hoops at least?” He motions to the game behind me. “You half black, right?”

  The Disciples crack up at this one, like no one’s ever made a basketball joke about a black kid before. I suck at hoops. It’s not my thing. Ask me how fast I can jump in and out of an Escalade with a broken window though. Ask me how fast I can boost a carton of cigarettes from a 7-Eleven. But there’s no point getting into it with Cardo. He’s fronting. Being real obvious about it too. I can’t hold it against him. He’s just trying to get back with the Disciples. Now that he’s stuck here, they’re all he has. And he’s got some making up
to do. All that stuff about starting over in Miami? That was bullshit just like they said. And they’re eating it up now. Because they’re so smart. Because they know everything.

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll give hoops a try,” I tell him. “Good luck with the Disciples, man. I hope it’s a real successful collaboration.”

  This is not the response Cardo was hoping for. Something in the air goes still, prickly, like it’s getting ready for something big. A few of the Disciples look at each other. Flavio Pendon looks like he’s ready to jump straight out of his skin and stab me to death with his raw bones. It’s only Mig’s putting a hand in front of him that keeps that dog on the leash. I know I’ve got to walk a f ine line here.

  “No, I mean it,” I say. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you in court. I know how it is. But I hope you get everything you want, man. I really do.”

  Cardo’s still glaring at me when I turn my back on him.

  He’s pissed off because he failed to make me slink away like a little punk. But you know what, Cardo? Isaac West is no punk. And I’m not the rookie you think I am. This is not the f irst time some fool tried to score points on me to impress his posse. Sean McKenzie tried the same thing. Now his nose is a different shape.

  Not that I like f ighting. I hate it. Most times it’s bullshit and easy to avoid. But if I’ve learned anything in this zoo, it’s that you can never let folks think you’re easily punked, because they will take you up on that shit. Again and again and again. So I walk the line. I walk the line like the pro this hellhole is making me. By the time I’m f inished at Haverland, I’ll be the expert in surviving juvie, and everyone can come to me for advice. Only I won’t be around to give it, because I’ll be back in the free.