by Nancy Isaak
But, now, the blocks had finally thawed.
When we placed our hand on the packages in the freezer, there was just the barest hint of coolness left—just enough to let us know that we needed to eat what we could today and throw the rest away.
* * * *
“This is delicious,” said Porter, shoving the last of the bacon into his mouth. For a skinny guy, he ate an awful lot—ten slices of bacon, four eggs, three pieces of toast with grape jelly.
“We’ll need to go to the store, now that the meat in the freezer is off limits,” I said. “Maybe pick up some of that canned meat.”
“We can go hunting,” suggested Kieran. “We’ve got the guns.”
“Or fishing down at Troutdale,” added Porter. “That place is full of fish.”
Kieran and I looked at each other.
“What?” asked Porter.
(Troutdale is a small, commercial fishing pond. One of those places where kids have their birthday parties, and fathers take their sons to catch their first fish.
It’s also on Kanan-Dume Road.)
“That’s real close to where those guys were,” said Kieran.
“The juvies?”
He nodded. “It would be just our luck that they’d be living there now, eating all the fish.”
“What about Malibu?” Porter asked. “There’s great fishing there—off the Pier or along the beach.”
“And surfing,” Kieran grinned.
Rhys was at the far end of the kitchen table, playing with Ethan—maneuvering a Lego monster through the leftovers on their plates. When Kieran mentioned Malibu, he put down his monster and looked over at us.
“I don’t want to move to Malibu,” he said firmly.
“Nobody said anything about moving to Malibu,” I said.
“If we go to the beach, Mom and Dad might not be able to find us,” he persisted.
I sighed. “We’re not moving to Malibu.”
* * * *
It was as we were clearing up the dishes that we heard the first gunshot.
We all froze.
“Is that what I think it is?” whispered Porter.
I nodded. “Gunfire!”
“Where’s it coming from?” he asked, worried. “Is it near?”
There was another shot…then another. Then a whole volley of them—bang, bang, bang, bang.
At the end of the table, Rhys began to whimper. Beside him, Ethan pulled his teddy bear off of the floor and stuck its paw into his mouth.
“It’s not real close,” I said, listening. “Maybe down near Ralphs.”
“Guess we’re not going shopping today,” joked Kieran, nervously.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Man, they’re really going at it,” said Porter, quietly.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
With his teddy’s paw still in his mouth, Ethan reached up and covered both of his ears with his hands.
Bang, bang!
I looked over at Rhys. There were tears in his eyes.
“You okay, bro?” I asked.
“I don’t want to stay here anymore,” he whispered. “I want to go to Malibu.”
“What about mom and dad?” asked Kieran.
“Let’s write them a note.”
* * * *
The gunfire had completely unnerved all of us. We had no idea who was shooting, what they were shooting at, how many shooters there were, and—most importantly for us—if they were coming our way.
Rhys was right—it was time to move on.
Even though we had wanted to stay close to our house—ultimately—we realized that it would be smarter to move farther away. If the gunshots had belonged to Mateo and his gang, and they had found our address in my Honda—then it was entirely possible that the juvies were coming to get us.
If this was so, then we had to get out of Agoura Hills…now!
* * * *
Our first step was to move to a temporary hideout.
Now that there might be armed killers heading our way, even Mrs. Holly’s was too close to our old address for comfort. So—grabbing a few necessities—we raced for Porter’s grandmother’s house on the next block over.
Kieran led the way, his Glock held ready in front of him. In the middle was Porter and Rhys—each holding one of Ethan’s hands. I brought up the rear, ready to use my Sig Sauer at the first sign of trouble.
Once inside of his grandmother’s house, Porter led us into the living room. It was decorated old lady-style, with a flowery couch and lots of little knick-knacks. Ethan and Rhys immediately began exploring.
Leaving them to their fun, Kieran and I moved from window-to-window, making certain that we hadn’t been followed.
“See anything? “I asked.
“No,” Kieran said, shaking his head. “I think we’re good.”
Porter, meanwhile, went into the kitchen and came back with a bag of cookies for the younger boys. Like starving lions, they lunged for the treats.
“Dudes,” laughed Porter, “you just had breakfast!”
Ethan and Rhys completely ignored him, shoveling cookies into their mouths as fast as they could remove them from the bag. Giving up, Porter came over to stand beside Kieran and me at the front window.
“So, what’s our next step?” he asked.
“We need to find out who’s doing the shooting,” I said.
Kieran groaned, unhappy.
“It might not be the juvies,” I suggested.
“It’s still someone shooting guns,” he complained.
“And we need to find out who it is,” I insisted. “What if it’s someone we know?”
“Still shooting.” Kieran wasn’t letting up.
“Look, bro,” I sighed. “If we’re going to leave Agoura Hills, we need to know what’s out there first. It might be Mateo and his boys—it might be someone else. Either way, if we know who it is and where they are—it’ll be easier to figure out a way to get around them. Because—right now, dude—the shooters are between us and Malibu.”
JOURNAL ENTRY #6
Kieran and I waited until nightfall. Then we headed out to search for the origin of the gunfire.
Porter stayed behind to take care of Rhys and Ethan. We had given him one of Mrs. Holly’s guns for protection. He didn’t seem happy about handling a weapon and quickly shoved the gun into a dresser drawer.
It was hard leaving Rhys; he was really scared. Ethan was having a difficult time, too—but it was Rhys who was openly crying.
“Please, don’t go,” he begged. “What if you don’t come back?”
“We’re going to come back,” I promised.
“But if they find you,” he cried.
“They’re not going to find us,” I said, “because we’re going to stay hidden. All Kieran and I are doing is finding out who and where they are. The moment we figure that out, we’ll be coming right back here.”
“You promise?” The tears weren’t letting up.
* * * *
I know that the Bro-Code says that we guys don’t do real hugs.
Last night—sadly—I failed the Code. Because—I pulled my younger brother into my arms, held him tight, and kissed him on top of his head.
Then I quickly and emphatically shoved Rhys away.
“Dude, you reek,” I complained. “Go take a bath!”
I wasn’t kidding.
* * * *
Kieran and I both dressed all in black—suburban Ninjas.
It was easy to move quickly through the houses in our neighborhood. There was always something to hide behind—a tree, a gardening shed, giant mailboxes at the edge of the sidewalk.
When we reached Kanan Road, however, it became more difficult to hide.
The road was lined with shoulder-high fences on either side—the sidewalks empty and highly visible. Luckily, there were vehicles stopped all along Kanan. We used those cars to hide behind—racing from one to another, straight down the center of the road—moving steadily south toward
the shopping center.
* * * *
About a block away from the mall, we came across our second body.
It was sitting, leaning up against the fence, on the right side of Kanan Road.
Barely visible—almost lost in the shadows.
“Psst!” I hissed at Kieran, trying to get his attention. He was a few feet ahead of me, crouched behind the hood of a Camaro, its trunk crumpled and broken under the yellow school bus perched on top of it.
Kieran turned to look at me. I motioned to the body next to the fence and his eyes went wide.
Up ahead, a gun went off—Bang!
It appeared that we were heading in the right direction.
Slowly, Kieran and I raised our heads above the trunk of the Camaro, searching for movement farther down Kanan.
We saw nothing.
“That definitely sounded like it came from the mall,” whispered Kieran. “It has to be the juvie guys from the probationary camp.”
“I wonder if they killed that guy,” I said, turning to look at the body to my right.
But…
It was gone...disappeared.
* * * *
“Kieran,” I hissed, urgently. “We need to get out of here…right now!”
Irritated, my younger brother turned toward me—his eyes immediately passing over my right shoulder, to something—or someone—behind me.
“Holy crap!” he gasped.
MEET THE ENFORCER
I had never really liked Brandon Keretsky.
From the first moment I met him—during football try-outs—I had found him to be arrogant and mean-spirited. He was the type of guy who didn’t just block you—he aimed just low enough to try and break your ribs.
And—when he brought his helmeted-head up, it was always with just the right amount of force and angle to catch the edge of your chin—hopefully, breaking your teeth.
Coach always referred to him as the Enforcer.
The rest of us—but never to his face—called him the Bully.
* * * *
Some of the guys on the team were jealous of Brandon.
He might have been a bully, but he was also a big, good-looking guy—with dark, black hair and even darker eyes that, along with his ripped abs, seemed to attract a lot of female attention.
But he had a girlfriend—Traynesha Davis—one of three ‘elite’ girls in our school, who called themselves the ‘Foxes’. (My sort-of-stalker, Peyton Buckingham, was also one of the Foxes, by the way.)
Brandon and Tray kissed openly at school, ignoring the teachers’ warnings. It was even rumored that he and Tray had used a room in the Performing Arts Center to do the deed on more than one occasion.
Tray Davis was one year older than Brandon and, without a doubt—the most beautiful girl in the school—as in, supermodel-beautiful. She was a whip-thin African-American, with light brown skin and amber eyes, who wore her black hair relaxed and long. Because her family was filthy rich, Tray always dressed in the skimpiest of designer clothes that barely covered her perfect legs and perky breasts.
When Tray walked down the school hallway—every boy and most of the girls turned and looked at her.
Only thing was—Tray was mean like Brandon.
In fact, she was a total bitch.
* * * *
Porter’s mouth was hanging open as we helped Brandon through the front door. Kieran and I were holding him up—not quite unconscious—one of his arms over each of our shoulders.
“He’s been shot,” Kieran explained.
Porter didn’t move, just stood there—frozen.
“What room do we put him in?” I asked. When I didn’t get an answer, I asked again—this time louder. “Porter…where can we put him?!”
His mouth still wide-open, Porter reluctantly pointed to a doorway down the hall. I could see that he had been busy while we had been gone. There were curtains duct-taped over all the windows—making any light we used invisible from the outside—and candles now lined the hallway.
It wasn’t a lot of light—but at least Kieran and I could see well enough to half-drag Brandon into the guest room and lay him down on the bed there.
“Go get the first aid kit,” I ordered Kieran. “It’s in my backpack.”
As he left, I set about making Brandon comfortable. Porter, meanwhile, came to stand at the doorway.
“Where’s Rhys and Ethan?” I asked.
“Down in the basement, sleeping in my bed. They tried to stay awake, but I guess the stress was too much. They were both out five minutes after you guys left.”
“Good. Keep them away from this room for now.”
“No problem.” Porter was frowning down at Brandon. “He stinks of alcohol,” he said, grimacing.
I nodded. “He’s definitely drunk. Probably for the best right now, so that he doesn’t feel as much pain.”
“Where’s he shot?” he asked.
I pointed to the wound on Brandon’s right arm, just above the elbow.
“That’s it?!” scoffed Porter. “That’s just a graze. It didn’t even go through the muscle.”
“He’s been beaten, too,” I said. “You can see the bruises around his head. Looks like those juvies got him good.”
“Is that what he told you?” asked Porter, frowning. The look on his face was one of complete distaste.
It confused me.
“He didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “I just turned around and he was there. Then, he passed out…what’s going on, Porter?”
He sighed. “Look, I can’t speak for the gunshot—but he got those bruises on his face from Jude on Halloween. I know, because I was there when she gave them to him.”
Kieran entered the room, handing me the first aid kit. “Jude-the-Rude?!”
Porter immediately took offense. “Don’t call her that. It’s mean. Her name’s Jude.”
My brother held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, dude…my bad.”
“It’s just that people are always so mean to her,” Porter continued, “and she’s actually a really nice girl.”
I opened the first aid kit and pulled out some antiseptic. Rolling up Brandon’s sleeve, I began to disinfect his wound. Porter was correct. It was just a graze—a bloody indentation along the skin, about three inches long.
It would make for an interesting scar—and story.
“You like her,” teased Kieran. “Porter likes Jude.”
“Shaddup,” said Porter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kieran started making kissing noises. I could see that Porter was becoming distressed by it, so I reached out and punched my brother in the arm.
“You’re being a dick,” I growled.
“Ow!” he yelped, grabbing his arm where I’d punched him.
“Now, you’re being a baby.”
I turned back to Brandon. There was a small amount of blood still seeping from the wound, so I took a bit of gauze and pressed down on it.
“Porter,” I asked, “why did Jude go after Brandon?”
He shrugged.
“Seriously, dude,” I said. “If there’s going to be a problem between you guys, I need to know it now.”
Porter looked down at his shoes; he seemed embarrassed.
Then, he gave a big sigh. “Short story—she was protecting me,” he said, finally. “Brandon came into Vons with Frank and Denny on Halloween. Jude and I were both working. I bumped into Brandon. It was an accident, but he decided to coldcock me anyway. Jude took offense.”
“She hit him?!” I asked, astonished.
Porter looked up, grinning. “Jude beat the crap out of him.”
* * * *
I gained a new respect for Jude that night.
To take on Brandon Keretsky—that took some balls.
* * * *
In her own way, Jude was a bit of a bully, too.
She was in the 10th grade, although she was a year older than everyone else. I had thought that she had been held back because
she wasn’t all that smart. However, Porter assured me that Jude’s marks were so poor because, in fact, she had dyslexia.
Jude—nicknamed Jude the Rude—was a large, slightly unhygienic girl with dirty blond hair and unfortunate skin. At lunchtimes, you would often see her eating at a table by herself—head down, never looking or talking to anyone else.
I had no idea that she and Porter were close. Personally, I found that fascinating.
Apparently, so did Kieran. “Jude and Porter sitting in a tree…k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” he teased.
Whack—I reached out and smacked Kieran on top of his head.
“Stop it!” I said. “Go and check on Rhys and Ethan. They’re downstairs in Porter’s bedroom.”
Kieran gave me a dirty look. Then, rubbing his head, he rose and left the room in a huff.
I returned my attention to Brandon’s wound—checking under the gauze. The bleeding had finally stopped.
“Looks like he’s going to be okay,” said Porter, still standing at the door.
“Like you said, it was just a graze.”
“But you think it was from the juvies?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought so before—now, I’m not so sure. I guess we’ll have to wait until he wakes up and tells us exactly what happened.”
Taking out a bandage, I opened it up and attached it to Brandon’s wound. He groaned a little, trying to move his arm away—then let out a massive burp.
The reek of alcohol filled the air.
“I’m sorry,” said Porter. “I know he’s your friend and that you play football with him, but Brandon Keretsky is a serious dick.”
