These Things Come in Threes - a Jake Burbank mystery thriller

RITES OF PASSAGE

 

      The heavy weight of a .357 revolver rested in the right hand pocket of his trenchcoat.  It was too warm to wear the heavy coat, but the fat gray clouds that threatened rain would suffice if he had to make an excuse.  Brad Christian was an expert at making excuses.  Some would say the thirteen year old was even pathological, he was so good at telling lies.  He would shrug, and ask what pathological meant if someone mentioned it to him.  He knew he was a good liar.  It was all part of growing up.

      Brad had overheard his stepfather tell his mother that one night when they thought he was asleep.  It was their fault really.  They should have known to keep their voices low in the tiny three bedroom singlewide trailer the small family shared.  Even though his parent’s room was separated from the middle bedroom by the kitchen and living room, any sound louder than a whisper floated through the thin wood panel walls like wind through a window screen.

      “I don’t care,” his mother said, her voice hoarse from too many cigarettes.  “He shouldn’t be telling stories.  Especially not to me.”

      “I know it,” Larry agreed.  “But he’s growing up.  He’s gonna get older, and he’s gonna think he knows it all, and if you think he’s gonna tell us about it, you’re dead wrong.”

      Brad heard the scratch of a lighter as his mom puffed on another cigarette.  Pretty soon, the smoke would filter down the narrow hall and into his room, permeating everything with it’s noxious stink.  He hated the way he smelled.  At school, they made fun of him for it.  The other kids would line up, point and laugh, calling him names.  Stink ass.  Skunk ape.  Smoky the Bear.  The teachers were worse.  They never called him names, at least not to his face.  But they would look at him, disappointment in their eyes, lumping him in with the kids who sneaked a smoke in the bathroom during recess, or hunkered down behind the gym at lunch.  He wanted to scream at them, tell them he didn’t smoke, that he would never do such a disgusting, filthy habit.  But he knew what they would do.  Nod their heads, sniff at his clothes, his hair, even his skin and say, “Sure Bradley.  Of course you don’t.”  It was like that all the time.  Just another lie to them.

      That’s why he brought the gun to school.  While his parents argued, he wrapped his fingers around the worn wood handle underneath his pillow, and considered sticking the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger.  A new girl had done just that the first nine weeks of school.  She was tiny, quiet, and cute.  Bradley had wanted to ask her to go with him, but he was afraid she would wrinkle up her nose and shake her head.  Or even worse, tell him “You stink.”  It was too late now, to wonder about the might have been.  During third period, just before the lunch break, twelve year old Dorothy Mitchell, new to Oak Street Middle School went into the girls bathroom, put the end of her father’s .22 in her mouth and pulled the trigger as the lunch bell rang.  No one found her until forth period. 

      Brad thought that was kind of weird, since the bathroom was full of girls all during lunch.  He wondered if they left her in the stall on purpose, if they were as good at telling lies as he was. 

      “Oh no, Mrs. Wayne,” each girl said around crocodile tears.  “We thought she was using the stall.”

      And the blood?

      “We joked about her period.  We asked her if she knew what to do, but when she didn’t answer us, we thought she was mad.”

      Brad was pretty sure that’s what each girl said about the incident.  He wondered what they knew.  Because twelve year old Dorothy Mitchell didn’t die from a .22 caliber bullet in her brain pan.  She died from blood loss where the bullet bounced off her top jaw and ripped through her cheek.  She lay in the stall, legs twitching, blood leaking down her face, soaking through her pretty pink dress to drip on the floor just above a drain grate.

      At least, that’s what Brad heard about it.  Larry put an arm around him after school and tried to talk about it, but Brad lied and said he didn’t even know until after school.  He listened through his walls as Larry read the article in the morning paper to his mother over coffee.  He wondered if they would read about him if he shot himself in his bed.

      And just as fast decided against it.  Shooting himself wasn’t the solution.  When you have a problem, you don’t eliminate the consequences of the problem, you eliminate the source.  Larry had told him some old proverb about sickness, don’t cure the symptoms, cure the cause.  It would work with problems too.

      The source of his problems was Kirk Reid, straight A student, prep, star running back, world class bully.  Kirk and Brad had gone to school together since first grade, had even been friends through forth, back when money and location didn’t matter.  He had stayed at Kirk’s house, and Kirk at his trailer.  They had slept in the same bed, shared covers while watching Saturday morning cartoons, and in an inspired act of lunacy, sliced open each other’s palm’s to share blood.

      “We’ll be friends forever,” Brad told Kirk, and the pretty blond boy smiled back at him.

      Forever lasted until the end of fifth grade.  Sometime during that year, every kid in his class became aware of social status.  A pecking order was established, with the children of rich parents somewhere at the top, and Brad near the bottom.

      “It’s different in sixth grade,” Kirk told him one day after school.  “Stuff matters there.”

      Brad wanted to scream.

      “I matter too.”

      But Kirk turned his back and walked away.  When one young girl started teasing him about smoking, Kirk took up the chant.  It was Kirk who labeled him Smoky.  It was Kirk that called him stink ass.  It was Kirk, driving a dagger in his heart with every guffaw, snapping a bond of friendship with every dig. 

      Brad responded the only way he knew how after the very first torture session.  He punched his best friend in the face, smashing his nose.  Kirk’s two new friends, Alex and Bo jumped in, pounding Brad to the ground before a teacher made it through the crowd to stop the melee.  Brad was suspended for two days, and the other boys were put in after school detention.  It was the end of childhood for Brad.  He thought of them as his glory days of youth.  Because nothing was the same after that.

      “Good morning, Bradley,” said Mrs. Wayne, startling him.  He turned to her, face flushed, heart racing.

      “Morning, Mrs. Wayne.”

      She passed by him, reaching out to touch the shoulder of the next student in the line of lockers.  She touched everyone, except him.  He watched her move down the hallway, greeting each student by name and a kind word. 

      “Stink ass.”

      Someone shoved him against his locker.  Bo Allen towered over him.

      “Say something,”  the big young boy threatened.

      Brad smiled a crooked knowing smile.

      “What?” said Bo.

      “Nothing.”

      “It better be nothing.  Stink ass.”

      Can’t think of anything original, Brad wanted to ask.  Bo needed Kirk to come up with new names, new cut downs.  Alone, the oversized youth could only parrot his peers.  Not a creative bone in his massive body.

      Bo lumbered down the hallway in the same direction as Mrs. Wayne.  He stopped at a group of four girls and made them giggle, peering back over his shoulder at Brad.

      The class bell rang.  Students began pushing their way into cramped rooms.  Brad lingered at his locker for a moment.  He had five minutes until the tardy bell would sound, but he didn’t care.  One more tardy to the many he had accumulated meant little to him.  They might keep him in after school detention, or even send him home for the day.  Either way, he didn’t care. 

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