Free Sons of the 613 by Michael Rubens Page B

mom to contact Eric Weinberg deflected. Comments from her that I sounded tired again.
    At breakfast Josh was texting with someone on his phone, and then he made a call.
    â€œYou can’t do it tonight?” he said to whomever he was talking to. “What about the weekend? Seriously? All right, we’ll do it today.”
    As Lisa and I were walking out the door, Josh told me to wait. I waited.
    â€œI’ll drive you to school,” he said.
    Um . . . okay.
    Then we got in the car and he went the exact opposite direction, and I commenced freaking out.
    We get on the highway, Josh responding to my panicked where are we goings with an equal number of you’ll sees. Wherever it is, it’s taking me out of Edina and out of school and out of the running for fifty dollars’ worth of ice cream.
    We’re off the highway now, on Lake Street, heading toward Uptown, another no-go area for me: boutiques and bars and used bookstores and punky kids, and what I’m pretty sure are gay men who have shaved heads and handlebar mustaches. As I peer fearfully out of the window Josh pulls the car up and parks at the curb.
    â€œOut,” commands Josh.
    Out we go. I employ my standard half walk/half jog that I need to keep up with Josh on the sidewalk. I whine. He ignores.
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    As we near an old movie theater I notice a girl leaning against the wall by the doors, smoking a cigarette and watching us approach. Josh doesn’t seem to see her. She’s about his age, I figure, and she seems vaguely amused, her eyebrows raised just slightly, a suggestion of a smile on her face. She’s wearing skinny black jeans and Chuck Taylors and a T-shirt with an illustration of a dancing girl on it and the words THE BEAT , and it all looks just right with her slim frame and pretty face and bright red hair, which falls in tight curls to her shoulders. I like her. I don’t know why.
    When we draw even with her, Josh stops dead and regards her in silence. I stop as well, waiting, not sure what’s going on. She returns his gaze and takes a drag from her cigarette.
    â€œI thought you quit,” he says finally.
    â€œI thought you left,” she says in response, smiling, and flicks the cigarette aside. Then she turns to me and smiles warmly.
    â€œYou poor guy. Has it been terrible, being his little brother?”
    I stammer something, not sure what to say.
    â€œI thought so. Here, c’mon,” she says, offering me her elbow. “C’mon,” she says again when I hesitate, and so I link my arm with hers.
    â€œLet’s go shopping,” she says, and we walk arm in arm down the sidewalk, Josh following behind us. And that’s how I fell in love with Lesley McDougal.
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    â€œDude, where were you?!”
    â€œDanny, I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou promised you were going to be there! We waited an hour!”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry.”
    â€œI called you, like, five times!”
    â€œI told you, Josh threw my cell phone in the creek.”
    â€œI e-mailed you!”
    â€œI didn’t have time to log on.”
    â€œWell, what the hell happened? What were you doing?”
    â€œUh . . .”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DETAILS
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    M ERIT B ADGE : P RODUCT
    That night I lie awake in the tent, stroking my forearm where Lesley’s skin had touched mine. I can still feel the warmth of her arm. I’m wearing the shirt I was wearing today, and I pull it up and hold it to my face, inhaling the faint aroma of tobacco and her perfume.
    Patricia Morrison seems like a distant, foolish memory.
    On top of my long dresser in my room is a messy stack of new clothes: four pairs of jeans, eight new T-shirts that have bands like the Clash and the Ramones on the front, or doodles that Lesley called “design elements.” I also have a new belt, several three-packs of boxer-briefs, a pair of black high-tops, and boots that are sort of like combat boots “but