“So?”

“So what?”

“Deal?”

I have no real information on what the hell the deal entails, but that isn’t important. What is important is why. “Why?”

Instantly, his eyes turn to stone. “They’re selling shit to kids. And when I say shit, I mean shit. It’s like ecstasy on crack or vice versa.”

“And how does that involve me?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Because, Ky, I think it’s the same shit that killed Steve.”

KY

Age Fourteen

“Every damn day,” I mumbled to myself. I dropped my backpack and slowly walked over to the playground. Every day I’d walk past and see the same thing going on—two kids beating the shit out of someone. Normally, I’d walk away and ignore it.

Yet there I was—a few steps away from them—and I’d had enough of their crap.

“We know you have money, you little shit!” one of them yelled.

“I don’t!” their victim squealed.

Every.

Damn.

Day.

“Give it to us, you pussy!”

One of them kicked the kid already on the ground. It must have been pretty hard because he yelped and shouted, “Here! Just take it!”

I crossed my arms and pushed my chest out. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

Almost in sync, the two bullies turned around; eyes already narrowed.

“Stay out of it, Parker. This has nothing to do with you!”

I recognized the tormentors from school. They were twins, two years older than me; Harry and Barry Berry. Clearly their parents were just as stupid as their spawn.

The poor, beaten kid slowly came to his feet, patting down his clothes as he did. He had a busted lip and a cut on his cheek. “It’s okay, Ky, just go home.”

“Yeah, Ky, just go home!” Barry mocked.

I eyed him and his brother, wondering if I could take them both. Luckily for me, my growth spurt hit at twelve. I was tall, but not that built. Not that it mattered. I’d grown up around this shit my entire life.

I took a step forward. “No.”

“What are you gonna do? Fight both of us?”

The beaten kid got between us, becoming my shield like he could somehow protect me. He couldn’t even protect himself.

“Just stop,” he said to me. Then to the others, “I gave you my money. You can leave now.”

“No,” I cut in. “Give him back his money!”

Barry stepped forward, his stance matching mine. “Or what, Parker?”

His fist was halfway to my face before I reacted by ducking and charging his stomach. The immediate impact on my shoulder made me want to scream out in pain, but I didn’t let it show. I didn’t even show it when Harry came at me while Barry and I were on the ground. He started to bend over to get me off his brother, but I kicked the back of his knee hard enough that it gave out. Their victim screamed and charged over to Harry, grabbing a backpack on his way and started hitting him with it. I got two punches to Barry’s gut before I had a chance to look at Harry, now cursing and lying on the ground, trying to defend each consecutive hit of the backpack.

With my fists balled into Barry’s collar, I seethed, “Give him his money back, and while you’re at it, give him all of yours!”

Harry groaned next to me.

“You too, asshole!”

“Fine!” Barry said, his hand already in his pocket.

Harry cursed again. “Okay!” he yelled. “Just get this psycho off me.”

I tried to contain my laugh as I watched the kid get one more hit in before letting out a maniacal laugh.

Standing up, I took the money they were more than willing to hand me. They ran away as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

“You didn’t have to do that, Ky,” the kid said quietly. “I was handling it.”

I kept my eye roll to a minimum when I handed him the money. “What’s your name?”

“Jackson,” he told me. “I live next door to you.”

I picked my backpack up off the ground and tried to remember if I had ever seen him before. But then again, I made a conscious effort to not pay too much attention to my neighbors.

“I’m sorry I don’t know you,” I said lamely.

“It’s cool. I don’t expect you to. I guess it’s just kind of hard not to know you.”

***

We walked home in dead silence, only stopping when I got to my gate. “So this is me...” I said quietly. I looked over at my house, sure that it had changed a lot in the two years since we’d moved in. Back then; it was a picture perfect suburban home. Now—the word shithole wouldn’t even cover it.

It was exactly the kind of house you’d expect someone just like my dad and his pathetic friends to occupy.

At first, the neighbors called the cops because the loud music and the general sound of assholeness never stopped. The cops came around a few times, but they never did anything. After a few months, the number of bikes in our front yard outweighed the number of residents that lived on the street. I guess they had no choice but to put up with his shit.

Just like I did.

My front door burst open, and my dad walked out—shirtless, tattoos on display—scratching his nuts. His eyes narrowed at us.

“Perfect,” I whispered sarcastically.

“Well, if it isn’t the useless cunt!” Dad yelled.

Jackson shook his head; his eyes cast downwards as he fiddled with the straps of his bag. He waited until he heard the front door close before looking up at me.

“So that’s my dad,” I mumbled.

After shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out the money provided by the twins. “You should take this.”

“Nah.” I waved him off.

He lifted my hand and placed the scrunched up cash on my palm.

I stayed frozen in my spot—not sure how to respond. Pity—especially from him—was the last damn thing I wanted.

“I’ll see you round, Jackson.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

“What are you doing now?”

I looked at his hand on my arm, then to my front door. “Probably getting my ass beat.” I scoffed. “Again.”

He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe ask a bunch of questions no one had the balls to ask me yet. “Hey...” His voice shook as if he was nervous. “Maybe we should both use this money. We earned it, right?”

We walked to the closest diner and ordered everything we could afford—the splurge made even sweeter because of how we obtained the funding. We talked about movies and TV shows. Turned out, he was only a year younger than me. I would have sworn by his physical appearance and the way he acted that he was no older than ten.

After a few minutes of us eating everything, and me watching him eat, he rested back in his seat with a huge grin on his face.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

He nodded enthusiastically. “You want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it tastes like victory.”

***

Jackson doesn’t offer small talk or even a greeting when I show up at the station the next morning. He leads me to the same room as the night before and motions for me to sit down. Then he removes his jacket, takes a seat, and pushes a picture under my nose. “Nate DeLuca,” he says.