Free On a Clear Day by Walter Dean Myers Page A

face seemed wider, rounder, the porcelain skin contrasting even more brilliantly against the dark-brown eyes. I saw that she had put mascara on her lashes, dark in front and green on the edges. One small hand, fingers spread, touched the gaudy paper on the wall. She looked like an animated doll. Beautiful. Fragile. Not really human.
    Drego straightened up suddenly. He looked at Michael with contempt, then started walking away.
    “Drego, Roderick has invited us out for food tonight,” Michael called after him. “I’d like you to come.”
    Drego continued down the hall for a few steps, then stopped. He turned and looked at Michael. “Roderick of the Sturmers?”
    “Yeah,” Michael said. “The Brits said that a lot of people were showing up in London. The corporations are trying to make this whole conference look like some kind of freak show. And it figures they’re going to be looking for us.”
    “Why you want to go eat with Roderick?” Drego. His voice was calmer.
    “Roderick wants something—maybe just to figure out who we are. I don’t know. But it’s interesting that he’s shown up here,” Michael replied. “Maybe he’s just doing a check on who’s got balls. Midnight tonight. You coming?”
    “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
    I remembered seeing a story on the Sturmers online. The site was profiling neo-Nazi groups. They gave his real name as Jerry Rowland. The “Roderick” came from the last Visigoth king.
    “There is a tsunami, a hurricane, interlaced with tornadoes, rising from the bowels of the earth!” he had mumbled in his “down-home” role as a good ol’ boy who was “tired of being pushed around.” “It is not God-made, but man-made. We are the storm. We are the Sturmers.”
    He wanted his message to strike fear in the heart of everyone who listened to him. Fool. People already knew that C-8 was running the show; what the hell did they have to fear from a bunch of misfits who called themselves the Sturmers?
    What the Sturmers did to fit in was to act as mercenaries for anyone who would pay them enough to commit the violence they did, or would pay them
not
to commit violence. To the Sturmers, and to Roderick in particular, there was no conflict except with those who opposed them. Roderick himself was a big guy, broad, and always in costume. Sometimes it was some country-western outfit, other times it was his biker mode. But always with enough Nazi decorations to show he was an asshole.
    We were together in Michael’s room talking about our dinner with the Sturmers. Anja texted me that we were doing too much talking. She was wrong. Drego wanted to know about Michael’s endgame.
    “To get a clue as to what Roderick will do,” Michael said. “What is he trying to find out about us? Do the Sturmers have strengths we don’t know about?”
    “And you’re going to get the straight scoop at one meeting?”
    “With your help, with everybody’s help, I’m going toget as much information as I can,” Michael said. “So will Roderick. He’s not inviting me here because he likes my company.”
    “And if there’s violence?”
    “There won’t be.” Tristan spoke up. “There wouldn’t be a meeting if he didn’t need to find out how strong we are.”
    “How strong are we?” Mei-Mei asked.
    “Stronger than you think,” I heard myself saying.
    Mei-Mei gave me a look that was like spitting on me. I wanted to kick her ass so bad, I could taste it.
    “You all right?” Tristan asked Michael.
    Drego had already left, and Mei-Mei had followed him. I knew they would be talking smack about Michael as soon as they left.
    “Yeah, I’m okay,” Michael said.
    “You sure about this meeting with Roderick?” Anja asked. “I mean … he’s known to be a sneaky SOB.”
    “I’m not sure, but I think I have to take the chance,” Michael said. “I need good people with me. Drego’s a hothead, but he knows the changes.”
    “I guess.” Tristan’s voice had an edge to it that I