Free Brood by Chase Novak Page A

Diana Ross Playground. And now in the little play area, named to commemorate the singer’s concert in the nearby Sheep Meadow decades ago, the band of runaways and castaways congregate beneath the full moon, which has at last emerged from the congestion of clouds.
    Rodolfo is their undisputed leader and he has gathered them all tonight because, counting the disappearance of Toby, four of their kind have vanished in the past month. Dressed in artfully torn jeans and a flowing muslin shirt, Rodolfo stands at the top of the silver corkscrew slide in the pocket park’s center while the others arrange themselves on the wooden climbing structures or the tire swings, or simply stand there and listen with the rapt attention that Rodolfo always manages to command.
    Though he must address some seventy people, Rodolfo delivers his speech in a voice barely louder than a whisper. They have gathered in darkness and they must be as quiet as possible. The luxurious towers of Central Park West loom nearby, and the teenagers in the park, whose lives are ones of flight and stealth, do not wish to be heard.
    Some of these teenagers, raised not far from where they now stand, used to play in this little park within the park when they were small children, under the eye of an overworked nanny or the anxious gaze of parents—parents who hoped against hope that somehow the project of creating a family would turn out all right. A couple of them sit on the very tire swings that used to carry them aloft when their legs were pink and smooth and they would close their eyes and imagine they were magically endowed with the power of flight.
    â€œYe’s and me’s, brothers and sisters,” Rodolfo passionately whispers, striking himself vigorously on the chest and then spreading his arms wide to embrace all who have congregated.
    â€œYe’s and me’s, brothers and sisters,” whispers the row of teenagers closest to Rodolfo.
    â€œYe’s and me’s, brothers and sisters,” the row behind them whispers to the next row back.
    Five times it is repeated, until everyone has heard.
    â€œTonight is not about business; tonight we’s here to talk survival,” Rodolfo whispers, and he waits for his words to be conveyed row by row.
    â€œThey are taking us’s brothers and sisters. Who is doing this to us’s? This we’s must know.”
    He waits for the message to be rewhispered. His chest is heaving. He feels so alive, it would not surprise him if he were to burst open and become nothing but pure light. He would not admit this to anyone, but power excites him, this kind of power, to have those faces turned toward him, to have them listen…
    For the most part, the whispered speech is transmitted without difficulty, though, as always, there are a few of the gathered—lads, usually—who are restless and distracted. If they were in school—and most of them have not stepped inside a schoolroom in years—they would surely be diagnosed as hyperactive, or suffering from (and making others suffer from) attention deficit disorder, diagnosed either officially by the school psychologist, or unofficially by a teacher or a parent who had simply run out of patience. These manic few do their best to follow Rodolfo’s speech—and, indeed, they do hear it and have a basic understanding of what Rodolfo says; surely, they hear enough to decide they don’t really need to hang on every word. But these kids cannot stand or sit still, so their listening is done along with hacky-sack kicks, games of you-push-me-and-I-push-you, hands drumming their knees, or, for one poor soul, a compulsive and slightly repulsive puckering and unpuckering of the lips.
    â€œListen now,” Rodolfo whispers. “We’s not talking no more to people we’s not familiar with. Don’t matter for nothing how money they look or if they’s handing over to you a big juicy Chewtown hamburger with all