from God, exactly how much He thinks a crippled single-father can handle.
“God is not cruel. I know, sometimes, it might seem that way. I struggle to see his ways, too.” Father Dom wrinkles his eyebrows. “But hard times push us in two directions. Either we accept them and look to God for help, or we turn away and let the devil take us on his path.”
“You’re getting kind of heavy.”
Father Dom waves a hand at me and smirks. “Occupational hazard. Don’t be a smartass.”
“I told Lincoln about St. Bart’s,” I mutter.
“What did he say?” Father Dom asks.
I shrug. “Not much he could say. He doesn’t want me to go.” I look at Dad. “It’ll probably push him closer to his brother. He just got out of prison, you know. He’s in a gang.”
I thought telling Dad about Henry would sway him, but my plan backfired. “More reason for you to get away from this neighbourhood,” he says with satisfaction.
Father Dom nods in agreement. Arguing against them is a waste of time. I’m going to St. Bart’s whether I like it or not.
Lincoln
I can’t keep my feet still. One leg keeps jittering on the pavement. I stand up a couple of times to pace the sidewalk. We’re waiting in a bus shelter in front of a gas station. Been waiting for over an hour.
“Nervous?” Henry asks. He’s got sunglasses and a baseball hat on so I can’t see his eyes. But I bet they’re half-closed and lazy, like we’re not about to do what we’re about to do.
“Just do like we practised,” Henry says. Easy for him to say. He’s jacked about a hundred cars. Gas fumes, exhaust, sometimes the smell of burnt coffee from inside the gas station store, are giving me a headache.
“Hey.” He slaps my leg to make me pay attention. “That one,” he says, pointing. “The Accord. He left his keys.”
The guy went in to pay, maybe buy some smokes. Henry and I dart quick across the gas station lot and slide into the car. All of a sudden, my mind goes blank. I forget what I’m supposed to do. Shit! I scream in my head. Henry’s watching. I can’t screw this up.
I look at the cashier inside. I can’t see the guy; there’s a pile of firewood in front of the window. “What the hell are you waiting for? Put it in drive!”
My heart’s pounding. I look down. The gearshift. My foot’s on the brake. I move it to drive, then press the gas.
We lurch a few feet ahead and then I slam on the brakes. I’ve only practised driving in an empty parking lot with Rat. On the street, there’s too much to look at. Cars, people, signs; everything comes at me and I feel dizzy.
“Go!” Henry hisses. I press on the gas again, gently. Henry’s slouching down in the passenger seat, keeping an eye out. Focus, I think. I turn the wheel to get onto the road, out of the parking lot, but I’m going too fast. I step on the brake again by accident and we jerk to a stop.
Henry slams his hands on the dash. “What the fuck, Link! Drive!” I kind of want to cry, I’m so scared and it doesn’t help that Henry is beside me, breathing down my neck. I press on the gas again, careful to keep the wheel straight, but there’s a parked car in front of me. Swear words hammer in my head. I know I have to switch lanes, but my mind and my body aren’t working together fast enough. My foot hasn’t come off the gas yet, and the car’s coming up fast.
“Shit!” Henry yells. “Get in the other lane!”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I swerve. A horn blares and I speed up, flooring it to an intersection. I turn right, too fast. The car fishtails, but I hold the wheel tight until it fixes itself.
We’re on a quiet street now and I loosen my grip on the wheel. Henry cuffs the back of my head. “I thought you were going to get us killed.” I ease the car to a stop at the stop sign, no jerk or nothing.
The alley that leads to the chop shop is at the end of the block. I’ll turn in, park in the back garage. The plates will be changed, and an hour from now, it’ll be lying in ten parts on a cement floor.
“You did good.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Think you can do it on your own next time?”
I kind of choke on the idea of a next time. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Henry’s eyes drill into me. “There’s always a next time. And no matter what the club asks of you, you do it. That’s what it means to be in the Red Bloodz.”
I forget to brake as I pull into the garage driveway. In a flash, the chain-link fence is in front of the car and then I’m driving over it, mowing it down till Henry shifts the car into neutral. We stop inches from the wall of the garage.
“Holy shit,” I gasp.
Henry leans back in his seat shaking his head. He gets out and slams his car door. My face burns with embarrassment. Rat’s outside now, watching me reverse. He’s waving his hands and cursing me out for wrecking the fence.
I reverse and park the car properly, but don’t get out right away. I think about taking off on foot and running home. But they’ll tease me even worse. Finally, I ease myself out of the car, taking a deep breath before I go inside the garage.
Henry pulls me into a headlock and my hat falls off. He rubs my head and slaps my cheek. “That’s my boy!” His shouts echo off the concrete walls, the wrecked chain link fence forgotten.
Rat passes me a cold beer and clinks his can against mine. “Here’s to a shitty driver and worse parker!”
I laugh and take a gulp of beer, wondering if anything will ever taste so good again.
Jakub
I slide my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. The St. Bart’s crest, embroidered with golden thread, shines on the chest pocket. Stiff and rough, like sandpaper, the collar cuts into my neck. But when I look at my reflection, I’m not Jakub who lives in a West End rooming house; I’m one of them, a boy from St. Bart’s. The uniform hides the truth; that I’ll have to wake up at 5:00 a.m., catch a bus, and transfer three times before I arrive at school.
“You need a tie.” Father Dom holds up a navy one. “And a few shirts.” We’re in the Nearly New shop at the school, the faint tang of cast-offs fills the air.
“I have some here that would fit,” the woman working at the desk calls to us.
The soles of the scuffed dress shoes feel heavy and stiff as I walk over. “Here,” she says, handing me two shirts. “Try these.” I wince at the thought of having the pressed and starched collars tight on my neck. And all the friggin’ buttons.
“You don’t like them?” she asks. She’s got a tag clipped to her blouse that says “Volunteer.”
“I have to wear one of these every day?”
Father Dom
