“Boy?” One of them, the one in the middle, puffed out his chest and grabbed at himself. “I’ll show you ‘boy.’”
“Shut up, Vasquez.” The skinny one shoved at him.
“You shut up, Marquis.”
They all stood and stared like she was a platter of fresh meat. The hair on her neck prickled, and she froze. Then she remembered sharks, and prey, and forced a smile, waved like it didn’t bother her. Never let them smell your fear. Even in apple-pie-in-the-sky, wholesome-as-it-comes Dahlia.
Inside, her heels click-clicked on the school’s linoleum. She remembered her own elementary school, six hours north in Arlington—the classrooms with their uncomfortable metal and plastic chair-desks, the school lunchroom with its ever-present aroma of buttered corn and floppy pizza, her fourth grade teacher Mrs. Boudreaux, with her huge teased hair and rayon pantsuits. The wayit felt to be young and desperate to fit in and aching to grow up and get started on life. She wondered if the boys outside had ever felt that way.
Or the kids inside. Kids like Devon.
“I wanted to leave these for Devon Robinson?” she said at the front desk, and a tall, attractive woman with rich caramel skin and an oversized emerald-green necklace smiled, held out her hands.
“You can leave them here. I’ll see he gets them.”
“Actually,” Rebecca considered, “is there any way you can call him out front a moment? I was hoping I could ask him about a follow-up story. I’m Rebecca Chastain, from theDahlia Weekly.”
The woman’s eyes lit as if she recognized her. “Of course we can buzz him.” She crossed the tiny reception area to the intercom, pressed the button. Over the loudspeaker came her voice: “Devon Robinson to the front office.”
She turned back to Rebecca, smiled again. “By the way, I’m sure you’ve been hearing this all over town, but your article on the summer camp was really good. I hope it opens some eyes, gets people realizing what goes on out here.”
Her voice was warm and melodic, like she was singing instead of talking, and Rebecca found herself returning the smile, relaxing.
“Thanks.” Rebecca met her eyes. “I hope so, too.”
“These kids, shoo.” The woman shook her head, her breath exhaling in a quick little puff. “They have a hard time of it. Those houses in this neighborhood outside,” she waved her hand, gesturing, “you don’t know half of what goes on there.”
Rebecca thumbed toward the front. “I saw three boys outside who looked like they wanted to jump me.”
The woman made a face. “Them again. I’ll call the police. They’ve been warned one too many times.”
“Well, they didn’t actually do anything but grab themselves and give me the eye, but it was a little unsettling.”
“No, no, it’s better if I call. We’ve had enough of that loitering nonsense, and in this neighborhood, you give an inch and they take a mile.” The woman gave her a smile. “I hope you don’t think they’re all like that. Most of the kids around here are good kids. They just have it rough, most of ’em.”
“I believe it.”
“These kids, they show up looking mostly like regular kids, but some of their stories would make you cry.”
Rebecca leaned on the counter thoughtfully. “Is that why you help out?”
The woman gave a firm nod. “Absolutely. I’m Marla, by the way. Marla Bryant.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“That boy?” Marla nodded toward the hall beyond the closed reception doors. Rebecca turned to follow her gaze, saw Devon walking slowly toward them. “He’s one of the good ones.”
Rebecca grinned, raised her hand to wave as Devon caught her eye.
“He sure is,” she said over her shoulder to Marla as she stepped into the hallway to meet him.
“Hey there, Miss Becca.” Devon looked genuinely pleased to see her. He wore athletic shorts and a vivid blue T-shirt, no yellow gangster symbols anywhere, and she noticed how his permanent teeth still had those telltale jagged edges of childhood. It made her remember again what it felt like to be eleven, that gawky completely out-of-place middle ground between kid and teen. Tweens, they were calling them now—someplace in between—and knew there was a whole universe of specialized marketing to appeal to hundreds of thousands of kids like him.
Except maybe those kids had plenty of food.
“Hey, Devon!” She held out her hand, and he shook it carefully, his little fingers cool against her own. They took seats on thebrown bench outside the administration office.
“Miss Marla showed me your article this morning. You did a good job!”
