missed.
Underneath the dumpster, was that a blanket?
A red blanket.
With pictures of brown bunnies and yellow duckies.
… a little bird
…
As Pookie drove away, the nightmare’s cold echo blossomed anew in Bryan’s memory. Bryan took a breath, tried to forget about the blanket. He hadn’t
really
dreamed about a red blanket with duckies and bunnies, he was just reverse-imprinting or something. For now, he had more important things to worry about — things like Chief Zou’s take on the shooting review board.
But maybe, when that was done, Bryan could find a quiet place to draw that weird picture again and make the cold feeling go away.
BoyCo
R ex ran.
They were faster than him, but he ran anyway, hoping against hope that he could find a way out or a place to hide.
Sometimes they got him, sometimes they didn’t. Every now and then he got lucky, made it to a street with lots of pedestrian traffic, saw a cop car or something else that would make his constant pursuers break off and wait for another chance.
Today was not a lucky day.
They’d been waiting for him after school. They knew which path he took to walk home. Sometimes he’d go fifteen or twenty blocks out of his way, taking different, random streets, but this time he just wanted to get back to his room.
That fat, ugly meth-head April Sanchez had seen his drawing. April bought her drugs from Alex. She was rich. Rex hated her. She’d recognized the people in the drawing and said she was going to tell Alex. Rex had known, instantly, that he was in major trouble. April wanted to be Alex’s girlfriend. Something like the drawing was a chance to get Alex’s attention.
Rex had spent the last hour of school terrified, waiting for the bell to ring so he could get home fast. He should have gone
away
from his house, to one of his many hiding places, even to his favorite park, but in his fear he’d taken the direct route home.
Big mistake.
He’d made it two blocks when he saw them, all four of them, on the corner of Francisco and Van Ness. Their crimson, gold and white clothing stood out bright and clean in the afternoon sun. Rex instantly turned and ran back down Van Ness, past the football field, toward Aquatic Park. He should have run somewhere with more people, but he’d just run
away
.
They chased him. They laughed.
The four boys. Always the same four.
Jay Parlar … Issac Moses … Oscar Woody.
And the worst of them all, Alex Panos.
They caught him just past the parking lot that funneled the two divided three-car lanes of Van Ness Avenue into a normal two-lane road. An arm wrapped hard around his shoulders, a hand clamped over his mouth. The boys packed in close around him, carrying him.
Rex tried to yell for help, but the hand was too tight. The bay was off to his right, the greenery sloping up to Fort Mason on his left — and no one was around. They carried him to the left, into a shady spot, and threw him down on a dirt patch.
Rex tried to scramble up, but they surrounded him. Someone kicked him in the side and he fell. They dragged him behind a utility van parked beneath an overhanging tree, out of sight from the mostly unused street. He wound up on his back. Someone hit him in the face, once, twice, three times. His nose buzzed with a numb, confusing pain. Tears filled his eyes, making everything look shimmery and fluid. He was dumb enough to call out for help, then something hit him in the stomach and all wind left his body.
Someone sat on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
“I heard you were drawing fag pictures of me, you fucking faggot.”
Rex didn’t need to see; he knew that voice. Alex Panos. A deep voice, far deeper than it should be for a sophomore in high school, but still it cracked on the first syllable of
drawing
.
Rex tried to talk, to apologize, but he couldn’t pull in enough air to speak.
“Hey, here’s the drawing!” Jay Parlar’s voice. “Lookit, Alex. Hey,
ha ha
, I’m in it, watching you
Underneath the dumpster, was that a blanket?
A red blanket.
With pictures of brown bunnies and yellow duckies.
… a little bird
…
As Pookie drove away, the nightmare’s cold echo blossomed anew in Bryan’s memory. Bryan took a breath, tried to forget about the blanket. He hadn’t
really
dreamed about a red blanket with duckies and bunnies, he was just reverse-imprinting or something. For now, he had more important things to worry about — things like Chief Zou’s take on the shooting review board.
But maybe, when that was done, Bryan could find a quiet place to draw that weird picture again and make the cold feeling go away.
BoyCo
R ex ran.
They were faster than him, but he ran anyway, hoping against hope that he could find a way out or a place to hide.
Sometimes they got him, sometimes they didn’t. Every now and then he got lucky, made it to a street with lots of pedestrian traffic, saw a cop car or something else that would make his constant pursuers break off and wait for another chance.
Today was not a lucky day.
They’d been waiting for him after school. They knew which path he took to walk home. Sometimes he’d go fifteen or twenty blocks out of his way, taking different, random streets, but this time he just wanted to get back to his room.
That fat, ugly meth-head April Sanchez had seen his drawing. April bought her drugs from Alex. She was rich. Rex hated her. She’d recognized the people in the drawing and said she was going to tell Alex. Rex had known, instantly, that he was in major trouble. April wanted to be Alex’s girlfriend. Something like the drawing was a chance to get Alex’s attention.
Rex had spent the last hour of school terrified, waiting for the bell to ring so he could get home fast. He should have gone
away
from his house, to one of his many hiding places, even to his favorite park, but in his fear he’d taken the direct route home.
Big mistake.
He’d made it two blocks when he saw them, all four of them, on the corner of Francisco and Van Ness. Their crimson, gold and white clothing stood out bright and clean in the afternoon sun. Rex instantly turned and ran back down Van Ness, past the football field, toward Aquatic Park. He should have run somewhere with more people, but he’d just run
away
.
They chased him. They laughed.
The four boys. Always the same four.
Jay Parlar … Issac Moses … Oscar Woody.
And the worst of them all, Alex Panos.
They caught him just past the parking lot that funneled the two divided three-car lanes of Van Ness Avenue into a normal two-lane road. An arm wrapped hard around his shoulders, a hand clamped over his mouth. The boys packed in close around him, carrying him.
Rex tried to yell for help, but the hand was too tight. The bay was off to his right, the greenery sloping up to Fort Mason on his left — and no one was around. They carried him to the left, into a shady spot, and threw him down on a dirt patch.
Rex tried to scramble up, but they surrounded him. Someone kicked him in the side and he fell. They dragged him behind a utility van parked beneath an overhanging tree, out of sight from the mostly unused street. He wound up on his back. Someone hit him in the face, once, twice, three times. His nose buzzed with a numb, confusing pain. Tears filled his eyes, making everything look shimmery and fluid. He was dumb enough to call out for help, then something hit him in the stomach and all wind left his body.
Someone sat on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
“I heard you were drawing fag pictures of me, you fucking faggot.”
Rex didn’t need to see; he knew that voice. Alex Panos. A deep voice, far deeper than it should be for a sophomore in high school, but still it cracked on the first syllable of
drawing
.
Rex tried to talk, to apologize, but he couldn’t pull in enough air to speak.
“Hey, here’s the drawing!” Jay Parlar’s voice. “Lookit, Alex. Hey,
ha ha
, I’m in it, watching you
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