The day after I get in the fight with the middle school boys, we go to Gramma's house for dinner. Ma and Ron are yelling something fierce in the kitchen and Angel says they've been at it since she got in from school. Since it sounds like Ron lost another job, there probably ain't anything worth eating in our icebox anyway.

I think that Ron must be a particular kind of dumb, to piss off his boss the day before payday. What Ma makes at the sewing place can cover the rent or some of the bills, but the day before payday is always a plain noodles kind of day, if there's anything at all.

Gramma has meatloaf and mashed potatoes. That's worth pretending to close your eyes and pray for, although it's hard to keep still when Curly gets the words wrong and she hits him on the back of the hand with her spoon.

"Personally, I thank God you clowns turned up," Dom whispers to me, as he shovels his food down, "or I'da been eating this for days."

Gramma frowns; she ain't gotta catch the words to know he's mouthing off. He's kidding though, I know that. If we didn't turn up, Gramma would have sent the cold meatloaf over to ours tomorrow, sent it with Dom, I mean. She says she ain't talkin' to Ma no more, not while she's livin' in sin for all the world to see, like a shameless Jezebel. Whatever the hell that is. I asked Dom one time and he told me a few other words that didn't make much more sense.

But we ain't livin' in sin, me and Curly and Angel, so Gramma still talks to us. 'Course that means I get an earful about the state of my split lip and why can't I keep out of fights and set a better example for my little brother and that precious baby girl who shouldn't have to see such a thing at her age?

The precious baby girl is currently trying to jab her fork into Curly, under the table.

I rub my lip with my tongue, as Gramma yaks on about it. I don't see why she assumes it was my fault. Maybe I got jumped for all she knows. The fucker bruised my cheek too, something I didn't even feel at the time.

Dom says, that when you rumble for real, you don't feel nothing. Not 'til after anyways. Dom's gang had a real, honest to God, rumble against some kids out from Brumly. That was Dom's first big fight, with him in charge. Dom is in charge of the Yard boys, he's in charge of the whole turf, since he took over from Henry Armstrong. Henry Armstrong got put in hospital by a lousy Brumly bastard who hit him with a baseball bat an' now he ain't right in the head. Dom's boys won the rumble.

After dinner, Curly and Angel get to watch Rin Tin Tin on TV. Dom gives me the nod to go out in the back yard.

"What happened?" he asks, lighting up. I shoot him a look and he laughs, hands over the weed and lights another for himself. He looks cool when he smokes. I'm still concentrating on doing it right, on not coughing. I want to make it look effortless, like he does.

I tell Dom about the jerks from school and how I stood up to them.

"Good goin', kid." He nods.

I tell him about the big brother too. It ain't like he would believe I took four kids down by myself.

He thinks for a second. "Yeah. Curtis. I know him." Dom knows everyone. He knows a little bit about a whole lot of people. Information is power. That's what he says. I have a vague memory of some teacher spewing that line in some class, so maybe he didn't invent it. But he uses it.

I ask why he don't recruit the big Curtis to the Yard boys? He'd be useful. I've been thinking about that today at school.

Dom says that Curtis is too smart. Too smart to be a follower. Plus he's too square.

"How is he square? He's a greaser, same as us," I object. I think I know where they live, them Curtises, it ain't no better than our turf. Dom tilts his hand from side to side: not so much he means.

"He can fight alright, but he ain't into the whole gang deal. Into sports an' shit, ain't he?" he scoffs. "Still, I can dig, if he took up for you, Timmy." He ruffles my hair and I squawk in protest, but not too loud, Gramma would skin me if she caught me smoking. She can't do nothing to Dom, he's sixteen and that counts as grown. Dom lounges back again. "I'da killed the little punks for you. You want me to come by after school, Monday?"

I tell him no, but I like the thought that he would.

And on Monday, I go up to this tall kid in my Math class and I tell him that I saw he got the answers to questions six, seven and eight wrong. I say that I can show him how to do them right, if he comes with me to get some lunch off this fat kid with glasses who sits in front of me.

Giametti – that's this tall kid's name – says okay and he takes the other kid's glasses while I look through his lunch. Cheese and ketchup is a weird sandwich, but I eat it and I tell Giametti how to do question six. For questions seven and eight, I suggest that he shares some smokes. He's all out, so he loans the weeds off a kid in another class who comes to sit with us too.

"You the one beat up Petey Wright last week?" the new kid, whose name is Campbell, asks. Not quite how it went, but I nod. He looks impressed. "I hate that Petey. Can you show me how to fight good?" he asks.

I nod again, and negotiate that he will bring me a sandwich tomorrow. His mom works in the supermarket, they get cost price on the cold cuts, so it ain't like it's a problem.

And after school, they both wait for me and we walk all together, like Dom and the Yard boys do, and Petey Wright and his friends can kiss my ass.


Ooh, it's like The Magnificent Seven...the Shepard gang starts here!