Summer on the Moon

by Adrian Fogelin

  “For Pete’s sake!” the General sputtered. “Me and the boys defended the world against Hitler and his Nazi thugs wearing that haircut. Now, if you’re done checking out the kid’s scalp, I’m famished!”

  Delia tossed a couple of burgers in the microwave, then caught sight of Socko’s bloody arm. “And what’s this?” She twisted his arm so the wound faced her. “How’d you get this?”

  “Ow, Mom, go easy! I blew a trick on my skateboard.”

  “How did I go wrong?” Delia stared up at the ceiling like she expected God to answer her question.

  The microwave beeped. Delia sighed, then slid the plate out and plopped it in the General’s lap. “Dinner is served.”

  The General glared at the burger in front of him. “You’ve got to stop knocking yourself out with all this cooking!” He tossed the damp top half of the bun across the room at the garbage can and missed.

  “And you’ve got to quit knocking yourself out being polite!” Delia snapped back.

  The General spun the wheelchair away from her, nearly dumping the plate off his lap, and rolled into the living room.

  It suddenly struck Socko—they hadn’t set the table in this new house even once. Now there was a ketchup-slimed bun on the floor. Was this the “family” Delia had been so happy to get?

  Socko was picking up the bun when Delia said, “I saw Damien today.”

  He squeezed the damp bun in his hand, then dropped it in the trash. “Yeah?”

  “He came into the Phat with Meat and a couple of the other guys.”

  The electric zap of fear ran down his spine. “He came in with Tarantulas? Did you talk to him?”

  “I talked. He said three words.”

  “Three words?”

  “Yeah. Three exactly. I asked, ‘How come I haven’t seen you for that reading help we talked about?’ And he said, ‘I been busy.’”

  “You asked him about reading help?”

  “The boy can’t read! So then I asked, ‘How come you haven’t gotten in touch with Socko?’ Meat answered that one: ‘He been busy.’ Meat bought burgers for Damien and the other two. They sat in the corner booth. They were slouching out of there when I said, ‘Hey, throw out your trash!’ All of them kept right on dragging their sorry butts to the door, except Damien. He rushed back and heaped everything on the tray, then he dumped all of it in the trash. He’s still got some good kid in him, I guess.”

  “I know he does, but we left him behind! He’s just doing what he’s got to do.”

  “You sure about that? It’s kinda hard to tell.” She put her knuckles on her hips. “When I saw him with those guys I thought, thank God I got my kid out in time. Then I come home to this!” She leaned toward him and cuffed the back of his head. “What are you doing, joining long-distance?”

  “It’s summer!” Socko wiped ketchup off his hand and onto his shorts. “And we live in a friggin’ desert!” He turned to face her. “Are you really gonna let Rapp have him? Junebug too?”

  “You think it’s up to me to save them? Sorry, Socko, but I gotta think about us, in the here and now.”

  “Yeah? Well, us in the here and now sucks!”

  “Zip it!” the General snapped. “We’ve got company.”

  “What do you mean, company?” Delia hustled into the living room, Socko right behind her.

  The old man was staring out the window, an alternating blue, white, and red light coloring his waxy face.

  Delia grabbed Socko’s injured arm. “What did you really do, Socko?”

  “Nothing!”

  A car door slammed.

  The General whistled through his teeth. “Got some size on him.”

  Striding the path to the front door was a cop even bigger than Officer Charles, the neighborhood resource officer who had regular “conversations” with the guys at the Kludge. Socko caught a glimpse of a man in a suit and tie pacing the driveway across the street. Had the girl turned him in for skating in the pool?

  “Anything you want to confess, boy?” the General rasped, pointing out the clear plastic bag loaded with cans of spray paint swinging from the cop’s fist.

  “No! I didn’t do anything!” If skating someplace that wasn’t a skate park was a crime, it shouldn’t be. And he didn’t know a thing about the spray cans in the bag.

  “Glad to hear it,” his great-grandfather called as Socko vanished into the kitchen. The old man rolled to the door with surprising speed and whipped it open, startling the chunky officer who stood, fist raised, ready to knock. “Yes?” the General demanded.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. That kind of depends on why you’re here.”

  Socko peered around the edge of the door frame. But he pulled back fast.

  Although the wheelchair was blocking the door, the cop on the front step was scanning the room.

  The General cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’re selling tickets to the policeman’s ball.”

  “No, sir. I’d like to have a few words with Socrates Starr if he’s at home.”

  “Concerning?”

  When Socko snuck another look, his mother was standing behind the General’s chair, the two of them forming a double wall between him and the law.

  “There’s been some vandalism at the other end of the project, over near the pool. Graffiti. Some busted windows.”

  Socko pressed his forehead against the kitchen wall. Over by the pool? He was just there. He hadn’t seen a thing.

  “Who says my boy did it?” asked Delia.

  The General cleared his throat again. “My money’s on the stiff in the suit across the street.”

  “I’d like to speak to Socrates,” the officer repeated. “Is he at home?”

  Back door! Go! The voice in his head was Damien’s. But Socko didn’t listen. He wasn’t guilty of anything.

  He stepped out from behind the kitchen wall. “I’m here.” He wished his voice sounded stronger. “I’m here, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Socko, we can handle this!” Delia clasped her hands, pleading with him to disappear.

  “I didn’t do it,” Socko repeated. He took a step forward.

  His mother’s penciled eyebrows rose in dismay.

  “Seems like the boy can handle this himself,” the General said. The wheelchair swept back, and Socko was facing the cop.

  His name tag said Officer Dalton Fricke. A walkie-talkie crackled on his belt, all official—yet he looked really young, and his hair was cut just like Socko’s. With a change of clothes he’d fit in fine with Rapp and his boys. But Socko could tell Officer Dalton Fricke was not about to do a fist bump with him.

  Socko felt his mother’s hands on his shoulders as the officer’s eyes flicked down to his shirt. He remembered the words printed on it and almost blurted out how he’d gotten it from the Help Yourself closet—but he knew, when dealing with Officer Friendly, you don’t volunteer anything.

  Through the open door Socko watched the man across the street pace back and forth. His necktie was gray. His shoes were shiny. He had the same white-blond hair and invisible eyebrows as Livvy. He had to be the Holmes in Holmes Homes.

  The spray cans jostled each other as the officer thrust the bag at him. “Know anything about these?”

  “Never seen ’em before.”

  “You sure?” Officer Fricke held the bag in front of Socko’s face, as though a closer look might jog Socko’s memory. “The developer said the tagger did a couple thousand dollars worth of damage.”

  The bag was in his face, so Socko looked. It was like there was a Help Yourself closet of paints, and the tagger had emptied it. There was paint for metal, paint for plastic—even one can labeled “Clear.” Who ever heard of bombing a wall with clear paint?

  “Listen,” Socko blurted out. “There’s been this car cruising the hood. Late model? Black paint job? Tinted windows? I’ve seen it around here three times now. Just this afternoon, in fact.”

  Officer Fric
ke set the plastic bag on the floor, where it rested against the polished toe of his black boot. He extracted a pen from his breast pocket and clicked the point out. “You catch the make on that car?”

  “No, but the girl from across the street waved at it when it went by, like, an hour ago.”

  The cop clicked the pen again and returned it to his pocket. “That car belongs to a real estate agent who was showing a client a couple of houses on Quarter Moon. She’s the one who found the vandalism.” Quarter Moon was one over from the street that led to the pool. Socko hadn’t seen the vandalism because he hadn’t walked past it.

  Officer Fricke toed the bag of cans on the floor. “I’ll bet there are some nice fingerprints on these cans.”

  Socko rubbed his damp palms on his pant legs. “They won’t be mine.”

  “Are you his mother?” the officer asked Delia.

  The hands on Socko’s shoulders squeezed hard. “Yes. And proud of it.”

  “I need to fingerprint your son, ma’am. We can do it right here.” He touched a device hanging on his belt.

  “No!” Socko was pulled back so hard he had to do a quick skip to avoid falling as Delia stepped in front of him. “No,” she repeated firmly. “I moved my son here so he wouldn’t ever get fingerprinted. Come on, officer! He’s only thirteen!”

  “These prints are just so we can check for a match. If there’s no match, we dump the prints.” Officer Fricke’s leather boots creaked as he leaned toward her. “Listen, I don’t want to take the boy down to headquarters.”

  Socko turned his mother around and held onto her soft upper arms. “It’s okay, Mom,” he whispered. “I didn’t do it.”

  She clamped her lips between her teeth and nodded once. Eyes closed, she rested her forehead against his chest.

  “Mom?” This was embarrassing.

  She squared her shoulders and turned to the officer. “The test can’t mess up? I mean, if he didn’t do it, that machine won’t say he did?”

  “No, ma’am. If those are not his fingerprints on the cans, they won’t match.”

  “Okay then, do it.” She wandered across the room and fell into the recliner.

  Socko watched his thumb leave a wide electronic print as Officer Fricke rolled it across a tiny screen. With a click, the print disappeared. The policeman grabbed Socko’s index finger. He was rolling it across the screen when the General wheeled over to Delia and sat beside her, placing one bony hand on top of her plump one on the arm of the chair. In a second, Socko saw her turn her hand over and grip his.

  After taking all ten prints, the officer clipped the device back on his belt and turned to Delia. “Phone number?” He jotted her work number on his pad. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “You should’ve called him ‘sir,’” the General told Socko sternly. “Men in positions of minor authority like it.”

  Delia walked to the window and threw up her hands. “Take a look!”

  Officer Fricke was talking to the man in the driveway.

  The General glowered as he rolled to the window. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. The man made a complaint, the officer is updating him. This is America, Delia Marie. With liberty and justice for all.”

  “What America do you live in? You got the word of a kid against the word of that big-time developer—one who lies like a rug about all the Phase 2 amenities he’s going to give us, I might add. Who do you think that officer’s gonna believe?”

  The General turned the chair toward Socko. “If you didn’t do it, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Your fingerprints will exonerate you.”

  Even though he didn’t do it, Socko felt his confidence drain away. Holmes of Holmes Homes was probably best friends with the chief of police.

  21

  YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S HERE

  Socko was filling two bowls with Lucky Charms and worrying about the visit from Officer Fricke when he heard a knock on the front door. The cereal box slipped out of his hand, spraying brightly colored moons and stars across the kitchen floor. He stood frozen, cereal bits on the tops of his bare feet.

  The wheelchair ticked across the tile floor. Socko heard the door open.

  “What do you want?” asked the General, with his usual warmth and friendliness.

  “Is … um … Socrates Starr home?” The girl’s voice was higher pitched than Socko remembered.

  “Well, he’s not out parading at this time of the morning!”

  Socko let out a relieved sigh. He was mad at her—but if the girl was at the door, the cop probably wasn’t.

  “You must be his great-grandfather,” she said.

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “I’m Livvy Holmes, from across the street?”

  Now she’s acting all polite, Socko thought. Bet she’s sticking out her hand for a neighborly shake.

  “General Starr,” the old man rumbled.

  “May I come in?”

  Socko dropped to his knees. Crawling fast, he tried to herd the Lucky Charms into a pile.

  “Socko?” the General bawled. “Your girlfriend’s here.”

  His face on fire, Socko kept his eyes down when the girl came into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Socko.”

  “Thanks for ratting me out.” He didn’t look up at her, but he could see her brand-new sneakers—a different pair from yesterday. They’d cost a hundred bucks, easy. “You always bust guys for wearing the wrong T-shirt?”

  Her bony knees hit the floor. “That’s not what happened!”

  When he looked over, she was crawling along the baseboard in front of the sink, scooping up the last few pieces of cereal. She stared at the orange star and yellow moon in her hand. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I was telling my dad about you when he got the call from the real estate agent. He sort of put two and two together.”

  “And got six. I notice you didn’t straighten him out.”

  She sat back on her heels. “I tried, Socko. I really tried, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

  The General stuck his head in the kitchen. “What’s on the breakfast menu? Ah, I see. Sugary Styrofoam. You care for a bowl, young lady?”

  “Thanks!” Livvy looked strangely grateful for the opportunity to eat sugary Styrofoam.

  Socko was dumping the last few bits of spilled cereal into the trash when he heard a cupboard door open. He turned. Livvy was reaching for a bowl, and beneath the edge of her shirt he could see the pale skin of her back. He swallowed hard. He was used to seeing lots of Junebug—she wore short tops too—but seeing this much of Livvy Holmes was different. “No cereal at home?”

  Just as she’d done the day before, she hid behind her bangs. “I don’t want to eat cereal at home.”

  There was probably nothing but health food at her house. What a brat.

  She carried two bowls to the living room and handed one to the General, who grunted and began shoveling in the cereal. She retreated to the staircase and sat on the third step, scrunched up against the wall. Socko noticed how she stirred her cereal under to get it totally soggy before she started to eat. That was gross.

  He ate on the sofa, his back to her. Bowls in their laps, they chewed without talking.

  Then Socko felt his neck prickle. The girl had to be staring at him. He took a quick look—but it was a false alarm. She was studying the old man, tapping her lips with the back of her spoon. “Excuse me, sir,” she said quietly, “but are you in a wheelchair due to a war injury?”

  The General turned his chair a couple of clicks in her direction. “I’m in this chair due to the fact I am older than dirt. God and me were kids together. Plus, I was stupid.”

  “Stupid how?”

  “Started smoking when I was eighteen. Quit at sixty-eight. That was what you might call closing the barn door after the horse got out!” He hacked, then spat into the dingy handkerchief he always carried in his pocket.

  “My father smokes,” she said quietly.

  “Ye
ah? Well, tell him he’s a fool.”

  “I do. All the time.”

  “Huh!” snorted the General, looking at Socko. “Spunky.”

  “A spunky snitch,” Socko mumbled.

  Livvy turned toward him fast, her blonde hair flaring. She delivered the hurt look girls were so good at.

  Everyone went back to chewing in silence.

  The General’s spoon clattered into his empty bowl. “Another sumptuous repast!” He held out the bowl.

  As resident slave, it was Socko’s job to hop up and take it. He stayed put.

  It was Livvy who jumped up, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and held out her hand.

  “Thank you,” the General wheezed.

  Thank you? Socko ditched his own bowl on the couch and strode out the front door. He had never gotten thank-you number one from the General. Let the spunky snitch hang out with the old guy; they deserved each other.

  He grabbed his skateboard and launched. He didn’t have anywhere to go, so he buzzed Full Moon Circle, going around and around, thinking about Damien and about the cop who might be the next person to knock on his door.

  After his fifth lap he was hot. He figured he’d stayed out long enough. The girl must have gone home by now.

  He hung a right on Tranquility Way, but he hadn’t gone far before he heard the thump of a basketball. “Oh, crap.”

  She faced away from him, her feet wide apart. The backs of her skinny legs were incredibly white. She bounced the basketball slowly and deliberately, her eyes on the hoop. This was his chance to slide into his house unseen, but he wanted to watch her take a shot. She tossed it up, two-handed, and …

  Not even close. The ball hit the corner of the backboard and ricocheted sideways. It didn’t have much momentum, though. It hit the ground, did one soft bounce, then rolled into the street. Instead of going after it, Livvy folded her legs and sat down in the middle of the driveway.

  Socko stopped the rolling ball with his foot. “You want this?”

  “Not really.”

  He picked up the ball and walked it up the driveway to her. “Here.”

  “It’s getting worse,” she said.

  “What? Your aim?”