"Curly—" Angela pinches her nose shut as she turns away from him— "you stink like you was takin' a bath in pig manure last night. Can you even smell your own—"

"Least you didn't have to clean it up, princess," I say roughly, "you want me to have given him a sponge bath, too?" I shove a plate of toast and a glass of ginger ale in front of him— he makes a face like it's, well, manure. He still looks the pale green of a new sprout, but at least he ain't projectile vomiting anymore, and I managed to get him into a new shirt. "Eat, it'll settle your stomach. And don't think you ain't goin' to school once you're done. The fuck were you drinkin', straight tequila with no chaser?"

"I still feel real sick," he groans instead of answering me. He's meek like a little spring lamb right now, all the attitude spewed out of him, clutches the front of his head as he leans forward. I try my best not to feel sorry for him, especially when I was up half the night making sure he didn't choke to death on his own vomit. "Am I still grounded?"

... Shit, I really said that, didn't I. There's a reason why the only punishment in our house, from either Ma, Ed, or our revolving door of 'uncles' when I was a kid, was getting hit— now I'm going to have to stay at home and make sure he doesn't go anywhere, be true to my word. "Yeah, you bet your ass you're still grounded, thanks for reminding me," I say, building up steam as I remember to be mad. "You don't get to hit me and cuss me—"

"You hit him and cuss him all the time, Tim, you got a mouth like a busted sewer," Angela points out. She and Curly always take up for each other, especially when they're up against their common enemy— me. I wish I got on half as well with either one of them as they do, but they get to just be brother and sister, and I have to raise them. "Is that a privilege reserved just for you?"

"You shut up, lady, I wasn't done— and if you want to get hammered, you don't do it so goddamned impressively I almost considered dragging you to the hospital." Now that's pushing it, even for a guilt trip. That hospital's still sending bills for Curly's broken arm, I don't need a new set to ignore. "Are you tryin' to be sent back to reform school, you miss your friends there or somethin'? I'm haulin' around bricks all day to keep my PO happy, and you're sure havin' a hard time livin' up to expectations from yours, who just wants you to sit at a desk and not get arrested."

"I'm sorry, Tim," he says. Not even a word in his own defense, and Curly could wheedle a glass of ice water out of the devil in hell, on a regular day. "I didn't mean what I said."

I give him a hard sort of head pat, that I wish was more of a cuff than it really is, because it isn't much of one at all. Then my hand settles there for a moment, on top of those greasy curls, in a way that's downright comforting. I can't stay mad at him, especially not when the little shit's wiping drool from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm not crawlin' up your ass because I enjoy it, savvy? You need to figure out how to game the system better, for Chrissakes, at least get sneakier about all this now that you're on the state's radar." Then I swallow, and take a deep breath. I need to get this out in one go before I lose my nerve. "I shouldn't have said you were screwin' around, that you ain't tryin' hard enough in school, maybe. I just got all hot over that woman thinkin' you're dumb." Only I can call him that, and that's because Curly knows me calling him a dumb fuck is how I show affection.

"Did I just hear you apologize?" Angela cackles, which really kills the mood. "Tim Shepard, admitting he was wrong? To Curly? I'm gettin' the camera, this one's a real Kodak moment."

I snap my fingers at her. "Go get dressed, while you're at it, maybe clean your room too—"

She makes sure to scrape the legs of the chair against the floor, but she does what I say. Curly leans against my shoulder a little, though I'm not sure if it's because he actually wants affection or because he's just exhausted. It's not like he was getting any more sleep last night than me. And I can't believe I say what I do next. "Git back in bed," I sigh, "I don't want to make some poor custodian have to pour sand on your puke."

I want it on the record that I wasn't going into Angela's room to spy, I went in there because I'd just gotten back from the laundromat, and I had a pile of clothes to bug her to actually fold and put in her drawers, not throw on the floor. What I walk in on is a scene I refuse to psychologically process, if I'm going to be able to make it through the rest of the day. All I know is that my kid sister's training bra is on the floor next to her bed, some greasy little creep is slobbering all over her, and I thought I'd at least have another couple of years before I had to deal with this shit. How fucking fast are girls growing up these days? What are they putting in the drinking water?

"Hey, pendejo, you wanna maybe tell me how old you are?" I'm gripping his shirt collar so tight, it's ripped in my hands, and then I clutch at the frayed threads. At least he's off her. "With your hand up my kid sister's skirt? Think fast."

His chin wobbles dangerously. Of all the things to fixate on right now, I can't believe this is the kind of guy Angela's going after, some pussy who can't even look me in the eye without bursting into tears. She could've eaten him alive when she was in elementary school. "Fifteen," he squeaks, "I didn't think you'd be home—"

"Yeah? Or else what would you have been tryin', without me here?"

"Tim, just leave him alone already!" Angela tries to elbow her way between us, her cheeks blazing like they've been held over a fireplace, but she doesn't get very far. "He's a nice kid, he's from Brumly. We weren't doin' anything wrong."

I just can't catch a break with those fuckers, I swear— and I'll be the judge of that. "You get the hell on out of my house, and you don't let me catch you within a mile of here," I keep on threatening, "or I'm gonna staple them hands to your sides—" I never make empty threats, neither, you bet your ass I'll back that one up. He runs out like there's hyenas chasing him, trips over his feet in their too-big, hand-me-down sneakers. Good. There's more where that came from.

"Is this all because he's black, this whole show you had to put on?" she demands the second the front door slams behind him, buttoning her blouse back up to her throat. "There's nothin' wrong with Leonard or the other Brumly boys, we had a history project that we needed to work on—"

"Before he remembered he needed to work on comparative anatomy, too?" I shake my head. "You are thirteen years old, what the hell's gotten into you? You think this shit's gonna be cute when you're a teenage mother, the way Ma was? 'Cause that's exactly where you're headed."

She rolls her eyes at me, which makes me quit thinking that I was being too harsh for a second. Christ on high, do I hate when she does that. "Like you weren't up to the same thing when you were my age, hell, even younger? I heard the stories—"

"Well, there's a difference between us, you see. You're a little girl, and I wasn't."

"You are so sexist— if you caught Curly makin' out with some chick, I bet you'd slap him on the back and get him a beer from the fridge. No, but if it's me, then that's a problem, you gotta literally throw the guy out of here by the collar. How does that make any sense to you?"

I am not sexist. I come down on them equally, because they're both equally determined to send me into an early grave. Hell, if I'm sexist, it's in the other direction, 'cause if Curly was copping this kind of attitude with me? I long since would've fetched him a slap hard enough to make his ears ring, but Angel's a girl, so I'm still here arguing with her. "You know what, you wanna be treated like Curly, you can be grounded too—"

"Grounded for havin' sex?"

"You were gonna have what?"

"So what if I was?" When she smiles, it fractures her face like cracks in a frozen pond. A whole separate layer revealed underneath. "This is real cute, your whole big brother act. I appreciate it, okay? Proves you care. But what do you think you're still protecting, exactly?"

I don't speak and don't move, my tongue feeling too large inside my mouth, a flopping slug that wants to force its way out. My scar hurts, though the wound healed months ago, a phantom pain like I've heard you get from an amputated limb. She looks down at her sock feet, bravado suddenly gone, hooks her toe in the heel of the other.

I knew she was lying to me. I guess we both just didn't want to say it out loud. But I want to say you. Protecting you.

"Yeah," she laughs to break the silence, tries to make it sound brittle, but she's still too young to pull it off after all. "That's what I thought. Stay out of my business, Tim."

"Well, he sang like a canary, and looks like we didn't even have to pull any of his teeth out first."

Talking to Joe manages to snap me out of my funk, mostly because he snaps his fingers in front of my face, which makes me go from brooding to enraged faster than no one's business. "Is he still alive?" I drawl, to stall for time while I try to leash my temper. I have to make a delivery all the way down to the South side in about ten minutes, and I'm not looking forward to the rush hour traffic, as I lean against the driver's side door of my truck. Rich fuckers who buy from us always think things can be done at their convenience. "Listen, I appreciate all this, I really do, but I'm not sure I want to be on trial as an accessory to cop-killin' any time soon."

"He's fine, we dropped him off yesterday, he's even got all his fingers still attached." Joe cuts a suspicious look at me, like I'm sympathizing with pigs all of a sudden, which is hilarious, because I can't get the way he called me boy out of my head. "Anyway, good news is, I don't think it's Tigers tryna slip into our territory and start a turf war. This jackass is new on the force, used to work in Muskogee, he don't get how things are 'round here— figured you was some kind of ringleader, that he'd bust a whole dial-a-dope operation and get some easy grass to push out of it. That's how it always went in Bumfuck, population three thousand corn-fed inbreds, anyway."

I sneer as I run my palm over the door handle. "There any bad news, then? Other than how much y'all wasted your time?"

Wasn't expecting him to actually have any, but then he jerks his head up a little, alert like a jackrabbit peeking out of his warren. He pulls out a pack of Parliaments from his coat pocket and lights a cigarette; he offers me one too, but I shake my head. I still can't believe I did coke with this guy. "You're not gonna like this."

"I never like nothin', you could say I'm renowned for it, so just give it to me straight."

"One of your lil' friends sold you out," he says. "Called him up, gave him your location, exactly where he knew you'd be selling, in exchange for a cut of the dough. You ain't exactly Mr. Congeniality with your outfit, are you?"

I ignore the jab as cold dread unfurls within the base of my chest, radiating out to my fingers and toes. I knew, without him telling me beforehand, but having my suspicions confirmed is doing nothing to help my usual level of unreasonable paranoia. Not when this is how my daddy died. "You got any idea which one?"

"He gave a fake name, which is smarter than I'd expect from your crew." I'm not dumb enough to try to smack him, he'd wipe me out in one blow, but hell, if I'm not tempted. I'm well-aware Curly's an intellectual powerhouse compared to my usual associates, but I'm not sure I want them sneered at by Joe, who's varsity making fun of the JV squad. "Mentioned something interesting, though, started runnin' his mouth about how grateful he is— 'cause his twin sister's just gotten out of the hospital, and the bills are rainin' down on him. That ring any bells for you?"

I should be going to find Alex and beat him down like Jesus chasing the moneylenders out of the temple with a whip, and instead head over to the Curtis house. I tell myself that I don't want to act on my anger, not yet, not until I've let it fester and worked out a good plan. That's not the whole truth, not even close to it.

I knock, don't get a response, and test the doorknob; they still keep it unlocked, though that's a damn stupid thing to do, in this neighborhood. Liable to get robbed, if they don't quit being this naive. "Jasmine Eugenia," Mrs. Curtis is hollering from the inside, "I said your behind better be in your room—"

"You treat me like a maid," comes Jasmine Eugenia's voice, shrill enough I'm worried about that cracked window in their living room. "Except no, they get paid, and I'm scrubbin' curdled milk out of these sippy cups for free—"

"No, honey," Mrs. Curtis says, slow and exaggeratedly sweet, "if I was in the business of gettin' a maid, trust me, I'd want one with a better attitude. A better resume, too. Now if you don't—" Then she notices me, blushes the color of stomach medicine, and starts smoothing her hair down. "I'm sorry, Tim, I didn't realize we'd be havin' company..."

That's the WASP in her. Ma would be dragging Angela into her room by the hair and still cussing her out to the face of anyone who walked in here, I don't get what she's so embarrassed about. "Is Darry home?" I feel like a kindergarten-age kid again, asking if he can shoot slingshots with me or let me take a turn on his bike. I don't even know why I'm here, what useful advice he could possibly give me, a former Boy of the Year who's tried his damndest to excise any seediness from his life or past— if anything, I should be hitting up his daddy. Maybe because a friend you've already lost is one you're not likely to lose again. Maybe because I want to know what it is about me—

"He ain't, he went out to the hardware store with his daddy, I'm not sure when he's fixin' to be back," she says, and I turn to leave. "Sit down, Tim," she adds before I can as she bustles around in the kitchen, and I actually find myself obeying, like my legs aren't my own. "And you're gonna eat a plate I fix for you for once, you hear? Don't tell me you ain't hungry, I've raised a busload of teenage boys, and it's like a plague of locusts have descended ten minutes after I go grocery shopping."

Her tone of voice scares me a little. She sets this massive plate down in front of me on a place mat, the mashed potatoes dripping with gravy, and I almost ask if she knows it's for me, how she can afford to be blowing this much food on a houseguest she doesn't even like. And then the noise I clamp down on, biting into that pot roast, I think would've been louder than any noise I've ever made in the sack. I'm starting to both regret my pride and wonder how Darrel ain't as wide as he is tall, eating her cooking every day. She's good.

"You've been avoidin' me for years," she says with so much bluntness, her elbows digging into the table, I almost choke on the next bite. "All over a watch?"

"I figured I probably wore out my welcome right around then," I say with an equal amount of dryness. "Even puttin' aside how Darry didn't want to be friends no more, you know."

"I mean, don't get me wrong, Tim, I wanted to slap you stupid back then. That thing was expensive like you have no idea, and I wasn't lookin' forward to prowling the local pawn shops for it," she says, and I really need to start making sure my food goes down the right pipe. "But Soda already got around to that himself, so I guess God has a way of working it all out. I more want to know why you did it, now."

I could lie to her, tell her some touching, tear-jerking story about how I just didn't see any other way to keep the bank from taking the house, and she'd eat it up with a spoon. I don't. "Wanted y'all out of my business, mostly. For good."

"Did you?" she says noncommittally, and I'm starting to get why Dally always claimed she knows the score. "Goodness, I didn't realize my fussin' was so bad, you needed to commit grand larceny to get away from it."

I just look at her. "I'm sorry," I finally say, surprised to find that I mean it. "And thanks for feedin' me."

"That's just what moms do, it's in the manual," she says. The back of my throat tightens. "Now let me give you some pecan pie to take home, how does that sound?"

... Pretty good, actually.

Nobody's doing any work when I show up to the site, just standing around talking in low voices, and a couple of them give me squirrelly looks as I approach their little huddle. Darrel's gonna have their heads for this, I think, then I realize he's not anywhere in sight. "... Gotta do somethin' for the family, his kids," someone says. "Pass a hat around. I dunno if he ever had no... what's it called? Life insurance?"

"They'll get somethin' from Social Security until they're eighteen, death benefits, if he's been payin' into it—"

"What's the hold-up?" I interrupt, more irritably than I mean to. "What's goin' on?" I hate being out of the loop. Come to think of it, I don't see Darry anywhere, neither.

"You didn't hear yet?" One of them, O'Leary, adjusts his helmet over his shock of red hair and snaps his chew as he takes pity on me. "It was on the news this morning and everything—"

"No, obviously, or else I wouldn't be askin'—"

I know before they tell me, I just don't want to admit it, from the tense, hushed tone of the conversation. "Curtis is dead, him and his old lady," he says. "Drove into a truck head-on last night."