Free Fireball by Tyler Keevil Page A

fluorescent jams that hung past his knees. Nothing else. He pedalled right up to the front doors of Keith Lynn, got off his bike, and propped the ghetto blaster on his shoulder. He put in this tape – the only tape he had – and cranked the volume to the max. Then he walked through the halls, staring people down. If it had been any other tape – like rap or death metal or anything – I’m pretty sure he would have got in about a hundred fights. But it was his mom’s tape, this collection of eighties classics. And the song that happened to be on was that one that goes: I’m walking on sunshine, whoah-oh, I’m walking on sunshine... It was nuts. It scared the shit out of all those thugs and posers and dealers and wannabes.
    After that, for obvious reasons, nobody fucked with him.

    I went a bit weird when he started going to Keith Lynn. I thought that he might make all these new friends – these super tough friends – and then he wouldn’t need me any more. That’s pretty weak, I know. But people were drawn to Chris – mostly losers and loners, like the junkies at Opium Park – and I was worried that the same thing would happen there.
    â€˜Hey man – what’s up?’
    I always called him after school, just to check in with him. I had to wait until he got home since he didn’t have a cellphone. He hated them. He hated the thought of people calling him all the time. I didn’t have one, either. My dad bought me one for my birthday but I kept dropping it and breaking it and crap, and after a while the company refused to replace it. Me and Chris both kept it pretty real in that way. Pretty old-school.
    â€˜Not much, Razor. Just got back.’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said. ‘What are you doing now?’
    â€˜Hanging out with some guys. Want to come?’
    â€˜No. I’m gonna chill. I’ll catch you later.’
    I hung up the phone and flopped down on the floor of my basement, totally depressed. I tried to imagine what my life would be like without him. I couldn’t. It just seemed sort of pointless and lonely. I was still lying there when he showed up, about an hour later.
    â€˜What’s shaking, buddy?’
    I sat up, trying not to look surprised. ‘Nothing much. Just baking.’
    â€˜The old shake and bake, huh?’
    â€˜You got it.’
    He sprawled out beside me and put his hands behind his head.
    â€˜What did you guys do?’
    â€˜Not much. They wanted me to join their gang.’
    â€˜Oh.’ I thought about that for a bit. ‘Are you going to?’
    He looked at me like I’d asked him what two plus two equals.
    â€˜I’d rather go play ultimate frisbee.’
    I started laughing – a little too loudly. I was just so relieved, you know?
    â€˜Hey,’ I said. ‘How long we been friends?’
    â€˜Beats me. Since we were babies, I guess.’
    I almost said something super lame, something like: ‘And we’ll be friends until the day we die, right?’ But I stopped myself just in time. Chris didn’t need to hear that shit.

    14

    â€˜He’s a pervert. All he wants to talk about is masturbation.’
    I didn’t believe Chris when he told me that. I thought he was messing with me. The three of us had to go see a police counsellor – this trauma counsellor – in the week leading up to Mrs Reever’s funeral. We didn’t have any say in the matter. I guess they just assumed her death would screw us up. Each of us got an appointment. Chris went first, then Julian. The next day it was my turn. I bussed over to the police station on Lonsdale, the same station they locked us up in after the riot. I’d never been there before. I was asked to wait in this office that smelled like old cheese. The counsellor didn’t show up for a while. When he finally did arrive, he turned out to be a young guy with thick, wet lips and these massive man-breasts that