Rites of Passage a Jake Burbank mystery thriller

RITES OF PASSAGE

 

 

 

        The heavy weight of a .357 revolver rested in the right hand pocket of his trench coat.

 

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 single wide trailer the small family shared.

 

Even though his parents 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 to. "But he's growing up. He's gonna get older, and he's going to think he knows it all, and if you think he's going to 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 its 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.

 

They called him names.

 

Stink ass.

Skunk ape.

Smokey 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 tried to sneak 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, and that he would never do such a disgusting filthy habit.

 

But he knew what they would do.

 

Nod their heads, sniff 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.

 

He knew about a girl that had done that during 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 lunch, 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 fourth period.

Brad thought that was kind of weird, since the bathroom is 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 if she knew what to do, but when she didn't answer us, we thought she was just mad."

 

Brad was pretty sure that's what each girl said about the incident.

 

He wondered what they knew.

 

Because 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, as blood leaked down her face, soaking through her pretty pink dress to drip on the floor just above the drain grate.

 

At least that's what Brad heard as he eavesdropped on school gossip.

 

Larry put an arm around him after school and tried to talk about it, but Brad lied and said he didn't even know about it.

 

He listened through his wall 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.

 

Kurt and Brad had gone to school together since first grade, had even been friends through fourth, 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 palms to become blood brothers.

 

"We'll be friends forever," Brad told Kirk and the pretty blonde 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 at the very bottom.

 

"It's different in six grade," Kirk told him one day after school. "Stuff matters there."

 

"I matter too," Brad wanted to scream

 

But Kurt turned his back and walked away.

 

When one young girl started teasing him about smoking, Kurt 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 every day.

 

Brad responded the only way he knew how after the very first torture session.

 

He punched his best friend in the face and broke his nose.

 

Kirk's two new friends, Alex and Bo jumped in and pounded 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 afterschool 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.

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