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gratitude.
    Stacy was wearing a sleeveless, fluorescent-orange T-shirt knotted at the waist so her stomach was showing, four or five bangle and rubber bracelets on each wrist, and two earrings in each of her ears. The extra piercings were new. Her hair was the same, though—a short black bob, shaved in the back, with long slanted bangs that hung over one eye to her chin. She had squinty hazel eyes that tapered at the corners, a short, thin nose, high cheekbones, broad lips, and a wide mouth that jutted out a little too much. Okay, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but then again, she didn’t have to be. She had that
thing
that some chicks just had, and for chicks who had it, it didn’t matter if they also had hunched backs, bald heads, two teeth, one of those withered arms, clubbed feet, or acne all over their bodies like a poison ivy rash. I didn’t know what that thing was or where it came from or what to call it, but I knew it when I saw it and I knew that Stacy had it and that it made me feel like I’d just finished going all-out for half an hour on a Sit ’N Spin.
    My head was a little light and my stomach cramped. But I fought it off. I was a detective now.
    The guy said, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, dick cheese?” I shifted my eyes to the tall, angular goon standing next to Stacy, the one whose voice was cracking but sounded like it meant business anyway. I knew who he was—everybody did. He was Ray “the Razor” Tuffalo, last year’s junior-high quarterback, nicknamed for the way he sliced through opposing defenses, a guy who’d punch you in the back of the neck or stick his knee in your gut as casually as most people said “hey” or “what’s up”—especially if you wereyounger and smaller and his teammate Tommy Sharpe was around to watch. Yeah, quality guy. He had a flattop crew cut, a pinched face, a snarled mouth with cruddy braces, and was wearing a red Joe Montana football jersey with the sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, probably to show everyone how long his arms were, because there wasn’t a shadow of muscle on him. Nah, the kid was all bone; thick, stupid bone, just like his head.
    I was giving up more than a foot and close to sixty pounds. But I held my ground and acted like he wasn’t there.
    “Hey, ass-stain, why don’t you draw yourself a photograph, it’ll last longer.”
    Jesus Christ. For a second I considered explaining to him that a picture was drawn, while a photo wasn’t, but it seemed like a waste of knowledge, time, and breath, so I turned to go.
    “That’s what I thought.” Razor smirked.
    No, it wasn’t the healthiest idea, but I turned around to face him.
    “Leave him alone, Razor,” Stacy whispered. She was chewing her lip; she looked worried or anxious about something.
    I didn’t like any of it. I didn’t like the fact that over the past half-year eighth-, ninth-, and tenth-grade guys had taken to circling Stacy like vultures; I didn’t like the idea of her talking to Razor; and I liked the sight of them together a shitload less. But I had to get outside before Darren forgot he was supposed to be talking to me and wandered off. As I walked to the door, Razor called, “Yeah, peel out, skid mark,” at my back. I clenched my fists, bit my tongue, and let it go. I had bigger fish to fry.
    Outside, it was still sweltering, and I was doing my best to forgive Stacy for hanging with that knob. I couldn’t blame her for not knowing what she wanted, because there was no way she’d know until I worked up the nerve to talk to her. So that was my own goddamn fault. But it was different with Razor. He had one coming,and sometimes I fell asleep at night dreaming that I’d be the one to oblige him.
    Right now, however, I had to get all of that crap off my mind and concentrate on Darren and the case. I took a deep breath, turned the corner, and saw him eyeing the Cruiser. Thrash was tucked away close enough to land a shot if needed, but Darren hadn’t seen him. We