Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“I always have to work overtime because you don’t think at all. You’ve slept through most of our classes since the ninth grade.”
“Surely before then. Besides, I told you to wake me up if there was something worth my time, and since you’ve let me sleep, I assume nothing has been worth my time,” he clarifies as if I didn’t get it.
He’s not wrong. It’s crazy that we have to sit in these classes when we aren’t learning anything. I couldn’t even tell you what we’re studying. I definitely haven’t learned anything so far this year. I’ll graduate this year, and I’m still wondering what that little piece of paper is gonna do for me. It’s not like any of the people I collect money from is demanding to see my diploma or wants to know what my GPA is.
As I’m pondering this, a Krispy Kreme appears on the corner of my desk. I trace the donut to the arm of a not so skinny boy I don’t recognize. He's probably about my height and stocky. There’s a slight bruise under his right eye. Someone hit him probably four or five days ago.
“I’m Terry,” he says when I meet his eyes. “I’m a junior from Section A.”
What are you doing all the way over here? Bam and I are in Section F, which is for the fuckups and failures. Section A is for the bright and shiny. Andy is probably in Section A in her school. Her shine is getting a little tarnished by me. Can’t say I’m too broken up about it.
To my right, I sense Bam shifting, no longer pretending to be asleep. He’s so nosy.
“You guys are Riders, right?” Terry’s eyes fall to my arm, which is covered up by the navy track jacket I’m wearing.
“What about it?” I keep my tats covered up in school.
“I want to be recruited," he says.
“You don’t.”
At the same time, Bam says, “Why?”
I shake my head and try to signal to him to shut up. We shouldn’t encourage this kid.
“Because it seems like a thing I’d be good at.”
I tap the skin under my right eye, the same area where evidence of his shiner still lingers. “Seems like you’re not very good at it.”
“That’s just me showing that I can take a punch.”
Bam snorts. “Do you know what it takes to be an enforcer for the Riders?”
“I’ve heard. I gotta beat one of you.” The boy’s chin jerks, a little defiantly.
Bam sits up. “Are you challenging me?”
“If I have to.”
“Oh, Christ.” This is stupid. To be an enforcer isn’t just punching someone in the face. It’s about being willing to break bones, knock them clear the fuck out, to take someone to the edge, make them so scared they piss their pants or are willing to sell their child to you, but I’m not saying all that in front of my high school classmates. I settle for “It’s not like it seems.”
“I’m not saying I’ll challenge you two but maybe someone else. Maybe I don't even have to take someone out. The word on the street is that the Riders are trying to expand their territory. They need more people.” I shoot Bam a questioning look. He shrugs and spreads his hands out as if to say, “Don’t look at me.”
“We’re not in charge of recruitment, and if you are hearing Rider business on the street then you should know where to go for recruitment.”
The boy’s hands curl into fists, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m going to have to fight some Section A kid in the middle of my homeroom, but the bell rings. The door opens, and our teacher walks in. His eyes fall on Terry. “Who are you?”
“No one. He’s leaving.”
Terry hesitates and then hustles out. Bam drops his head back to his arms. I stare at the ceiling. For the next fifty minutes, the teacher drones on about something neither of us know or care about.
Bam and I leave after lunch. There are three more classes, but those teachers aren’t going to do anything if we’re not there. The laundromat is full when we arrive. I guess that kid was right. It’s open recruitment.
We do our little secret knock, get patted down, and are then ushered into Clark’s office. “Did you take a good look at our recruits?” he asks. “What do you think of them?”
“No idea.” Sometimes the scrawny ones are surprisingly good fighters. It all depends on how desperate someone is. “What’s with all the new muscle?”
“We’re expanding.” I guess Terry was right. “In fact”—Clark pushes a cell phone toward us—“I have a different sort of job for you.”
We stare at the phone like it’s a live snake about to bite. Usually our orders are oral, which we memorize. That way, there is less for cops to use against us if we’re ever caught.