back to the curb, a car pulled up on the west corner. Abraham Billings. That made six days in a row.
Kirk was impressed.
Until the past week and a half, Abraham had missed school more often than he’d come. But when he did show, his mother always dropped him off. She kissed him on the cheek, then sat in her car watching until he’d disappeared inside the school.
Kirk could imagine Susan there, doing the same with Alicia.
“Hey, buddy,” Kirk said as the boy approached his corner.
“Hi.” The word was barely uttered.
At the moment Abraham was the only one waiting there to cross. Which meant that Kirk could hold him there for a second, have a chance to talk with him.
“You okay?” Kirk had known for months that this agile young man had problems.
“Yeah.”
He waved to the boy’s mom, who waved back. Abraham scowled.
“You mad at her?” Kirk asked.
“No.” The tone was almost belligerent.
Abraham was probably one of the best-looking kids in his class. Tanned and lithe, he had perfectly proportioned features and big brown eyes. He wasn’t looking particularly attractive at the moment, however.
Deciding to leave well enough alone for that day, Kirk adjusted the edge of his bright orange vest and waited for enough kids to warrant stopping traffic. He didn’t see any children coming down the street. He’d wait another thirty seconds and then halt traffic anyway.
“Do you hafta wave at her like that?” The question seemed to burst from Abraham.
“Like what?”
“Like she’s a piece of meat or something.”
Whoa. Kirk frowned, framing his next words carefully around something he sensed was there but hadn’t yet identified.
“I wave at all the mothers,” he said easily. “And fathers, too. Every day.”
“Why?”
“To let them know they can trust their kids to me.”
“Oh.”
Another car was approaching. The Smith boys. They were good kids. Kirk knew several Smiths, including the business professor in college who’d mentored him during his undergrad years and then grad school—and guided him through his first multimillion-dollar deal.
Glad that Smith was such a common name, Kirk kept hoping that the more decent Smiths he knew, like his professor, the less pain he’d feel at the thought of the one bastard he’d never met—the Smith who’d changed his life forever.
“That’s dumb.” Abraham was staring out at the street, but didn’t seem to be focusing on much.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, man, it just is.”
The Smith boys had stopped halfway out of their car, apparently listening to some last-minute instruction from their mother. According to her sons, she had a different name—Simms. And apparently she was a juvenile court judge.
“Basketball tryouts are next Tuesday,” Kirk said casually.
“So?”
“I’m the coach.” Steve McDonald, principal of Menlo Ranch and the one person who’d remained a friend to Kirk all his life, had included the coaching position in the package he’d presented last spring. It was intended to save Kirk from himself. And it seemed to be working.
“So?”
“I’d like you to try out.”
“I’m too short.”
“You’re quick. And I’ve seen you at lunch, tossing trash in the can from eight feet away. You never miss.”
Kirk served as lunchroom monitor during the middle part of the day.
Shoving his hands in the pockets of his freshly laundered jeans, Abraham shrugged his backpack higher on to his shoulders. “I don’t have time.”
“It’s only for an hour or two after school.”
“What is?”
The Smith twins had arrived. Kirk looked up and waved as their classic blond beauty of a mother pulled past them. He waited for her to go and then stepped off the curb.
“Basketball tryouts,” he answered Blake. “They’re next Tuesday.”
Abraham had already left them.
“Cool,” Brian said. “Can anyone try out?”
“Of course.”
The boys were walking slowly across the street, seemingly oblivious to the traffic they were holding up.
“You coaching?” Blake asked.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll be there,” Brian called as they raced the last few yards to the opposite curb.
Kirk watched them go, his forehead creased.
Something wasn’t quite right with Brian Smith. He shuffled when he walked. Like he was too lethargic to pick up his feet.
That was as far as Kirk had gotten with his analysis, however. Those two were hard to get to know. They were cheerful and friendly on the surface, but didn’t reveal much about their inner thoughts and feelings. They covered for each other, looked out for each other—almost as though they didn’t need anyone else. As though they had one identity instead of two.
Kirk was no psychiatrist, but he didn’t think that could be good for them.
“HEY, BOY, you want to see how babies are made?”
Coming in from school late Thursday afternoon, Abe didn’t recognize the male voice that had called out to him from the end of the hall. He glanced sideways at the guy standing in the trailer Abe shared with his mother. He didn’t recognize the man.
Except that they all looked alike. Too tall. Too fat. Too bald—or too gray. Too dressed up. Too slick. And always, always too sickening.
Reaching his room at the opposite end of the hall, Abe ignored the man. He’d been doing his community service work at the old folks home since class got out and he wanted to change clothes.
“’Cause I’ve got some great pictures of your mom I can show ya…”
Abe shut his bedroom door. Put on his headphones. And waited for his mother to call him to dinner.
“HI, MOM.”
Blake
