One: A Night At the Park
***
“You’re all a bunch of very bad girls!”
The gym teacher stood huffing and puffing like a dog on the wrong side of a rotten fence. What she’d just seen had redefined abominable behavior at Maple City Juvenile Detention Center. Her girls, standing in the poorly lit gymnasium (shadows loitered in corners, as well as at the back of the stage, where some of the wood was so rotten it bent when you walked on it), grinned, happy for what they had accomplished. At the other end of the gym, the boys on the basketball team had stopped playing. All looked stunned; most looked ready for an encore.
“I am outraged!” the teacher—a round woman whom many of the girls had nicknamed Frog—yelled. “Infuriated! Appalled! Stupefied…and embarrassed! For all of you!”
Titters from up and down the row. Sneakers with pink laces turned inward. Pony-tails. Bubble gum.
“You may think it’s funny now,” the frog told them, “but once the director finds out about this, the music is going to change. Quickly. In the meantime”—she closed her eyes and took a deep breath; one chubby hand squeezed the whistle between her breasts—“I want all of you back in the locker room. You will walk there in an orderly fashion, and put on your brassieres.”
Laugher erupted from pretty much everywhere at this. Penelope Sitko’s was the loudest, with Keltie Burke’s close behind. Frog raised the whistle to her lips and gave it a hard blow. “Shut up!”
***
“Now tonight,” Penelope said, clipping her bra into place, “you’re going to do a lot more than flash.” She looked at the shorter girl in front of her. “I hope.”
“Don’t worry,” Keltie said. She slammed her locker closed. “I’ll throw myself at his mercy. All I ask is that he look like James Dean, kiss like Ryan Gosling, and have a bank account like Bill Gates.”
“What if he looks like Bill Gates?”
Keltie gave her friend a long, hard look. “Then I’m out like a shot. You’d better not be serious about that, girl. I’m—“
But Penelope was already laughing too hard to listen. Doubled over, she still stood almost as tall as Keltie. “Relax, he doesn’t. He goes to Norwalk High, but he’s not a nerd. Oh God, I love messing with your head like that.”
“And who’s your date for the night?” Keltie sneered. “Popeye?”
“Popeye?” Her friend blinked a little before getting the joke. “Oh, ha-ha. Keltie Burke made a funny. She can do cart-wheels on the balance beam, but can she slam a volleyball over the net? Or get a jar of pickles off the top shelf?”
“The kind of pickles you like don’t come in a jar, dear heart.”
“True.”
Both girls stopped for a moment. In the next, they were laughing hard enough to need oxygen. Some of the others noticed and glanced over from their own lockers, but not for long. The room was abuzz with at least a dozen different conversations to keep even the most impertinent of the throng satisfied. And besides, friendship is always one of the two strongest forces inside any detention home. The other, of course, is enmity.
***
The juvenile detention center in Norwalk, Ohio was gigantic. That made it very easy to escape from whenever the whim to do so came upon one of its occupants. Situated at the far southern end of Benedict Avenue, it stretched for two entire blocks just inside the border of an old residential district, where houses built during Abraham Lincoln’s time towered over enormous lawns beneath the shade of still taller elms and oaks.
The south wing belonged to the boys, and would have been a much more suitable target for what Penelope had in mind tonight, except that the section between the south and the north wing, where the girls lived, was always heavily staffed. You couldn’t pass through it without introducing yourself—or crawling inside one of the mouse infested heating ducts. And in Penelope Sitko’s oft spoken opinion, none of the boys residing at Norwalk JD were worth the pleasantries or the parasites. It was an opinion Keltie agreed with almost completely. Almost.
“Okay,” Penelope said at present, “you ready to do this?”
They were crouched behind a fake tree outside their room. It was after dark. An empty hallway stretched to a window lit by a parking lot arc-sodium lamp.
“I’m ready,” Keltie said.
“Rubbers?”
She grimaced. “What?”
“Condoms, Keltie. Did you bring any?”
“Oh fuck. No. I wasn’t sure how to get them.”
Penelope reached into her bag and came out with a shiny red packet made of what looked like tin foil. Without a word, she dropped it into Keltie’s bag.
“Is one all I’m going to need?” she asked.
“It’ll do for a start,” Penelope said. “If those blue eyes of yours make him want to come back for more, ask if he has an extra.”
The crept down to the window and turned left. A flight of cracked, concrete steps descended to the kitchen, where there were a great many counters to hide behind. Not that avoidance seemed to be much of an issue on this particular night. The kitchen was dark and completely deserted. Penelope counted three windows on the left wall, then walked around a block of butcher knives to grab hold of the sash.
“Help me lift this,” she said.
“No.”
Slowly, Penelope turned around, to find Keltie with one of the butcher knives raised over her head. An evil grin—a jack-o-lantern’s grin—decorated her face, and the blue eyes she’d just been complimented on looked lunatic.
“What are you doing?” Penelope hissed.
“You’ve done wonderful work tonight, Jason, and Mommy is pleased,” Keltie said back…and then collapsed into a fit of giggles.
“Will you put that thing down and help me with this?” Without waiting for her friend to comply, Penelope turned back to attempt the deed on her own. The muscles in her skinny arms went tight. The window creaked, budged. “Any time you’re ready back there,” she grunted.
Keltie put the knife down. Under the onslaught of both girls the window finally gave, allowing them access to a row of bushes along the north wing. Now the detention center’s gigantic front lawn lay sprawled before them, a dark field of brown. It was early May—growing time. Except that nothing around the DC ever seemed to grow very well.
“For just one second,” Keltie said, “you looked ready to pee yourself.”
“When we get back,” Penelope replied, “I’m gonna use that same knife to cut your spiky hair into a scratching post for Meow-Meow.”
“Leave Meow-Meow alone. She’s having kittens soon.”
They made their way along the side of the building to a row of trees that bordered the property, and from here down to Benedict Avenue without incident. Keltie wasn’t worried much about being seen or recognized. It was nearing midnight, and the neighborhood was a sleepy one. Old houses with wide lawns and tall trees. Very few lights shined in any of the windows. In one, Keltie saw an old man and an easy chair, a book open in his hand. He did not so much as glance out to watch them pass.
“Lyons’ Park is our meeting place,” Penelope said. A cigarette appeared in her hand, which she offered to Keltie.
“On State Street?” Keltie asked, incredulous. “That’s almost a mile away.”
“It’s a nice night for a walk. Let me light that for you.”
They smoked, talked, and smoked some more as the lights of downtown Norwalk grew closer. Keltie felt excited about the meet-up. More than excited. She was almost ecstatic with anticipation. She’d dressed for the event in pure confidence, never minding that this would her first time ever, and she’d yet to even meet the boy in question. A blood-red tank top covered her thin chest. Accompanying this was a short denim skirt and a pair of black boots with buckles. It all fit together quite nicely.
“What’s his name?” Keltie suddenly wanted to know.
“Rick…something.” The other girl’s lip twisted in thought. “Dammit. I can’t remember his last name. But I know his first is Rick. He’s a friend of the guy I’m going to be with.”
“That’s all right. Is he tall?”
“Taller than you, my friend.”
Exasperated, Keltie cast her cigarette onto the street curb. “Yeah, but…is he tall?”
“Tall. Suave. Handsome. Debonair. James Fucking Bond.”
“All right,” Keltie said, relaxing. “So is he like…a Daniel Craig James Bond or Roger Moore?”
“Pierce Brosnan.”
“Oh I’m going to fucking eat this guy for a late supper.”
“That’s my girl.”
***
The handsome boy’s eyes gleamed at her. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Rick. You’re Keltie.” This last was spoken as if his partner had temporarily forgotten.
“Hi,” Keltie said.
He didn’t look like Pierce Brosnan. Nevertheless, pleasure swelled in Keltie’s chest. The kid was definitely tall—at least a foot more so than she—and he had muscles aplenty. Did he play football? Hockey? Both?
“So what school do you go to?” she asked instead.
“Norwalk High.”
“Cool.”
There was nobody else in the park. Over a rusted spring-horse, the two sized each other up. Penelope had already disappeared with her date, somewhere in the shadows down Baker Street. The thought that the two of them might already be halfway undressed excited Keltie. Impatient to begin, she grabbed Rick’s hand and pulled him closer.
“Ready?” she leered.
Rick smiled back. “I want to check you out first.”
“Be my guest.”
They went behind a tree, where he could push her against the bark. Keltie let it happen, confident that the night would protect them both from prying eyes. A long, hard kiss followed. His hands crawled through her hair. Keltie took back every bit as much as Rick took, and more. She jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. This brought her skirt up all the way past the panty line. She felt Rick’s hands scurry up her thigh, hesitate, and then plunge under the thin fabric to invade the sensitive crevice beneath.
“Oh my God!” she gasped. “Oh my God, yes!”
It made Rick laugh. “You’re being a good girl tonight. Are you sure you’re from the DC?”
“Oh, I can be such a good girl for you! Whenever you need me to be! I—
“Shh! What the fuck was that?”
Keltie froze between breaths. She looked at Rick, who was now looking up at the tree. “What the fuck was what?” she demanded. “Come on Rick, don’t stop.”
“Something just jumped across the top of this tree.”
Her head craned back to search the branches, but they were too high above, and the night too dark, to see anything. “It was just a squirrel.”
“It would have had to be a pretty big fucking squirrel,” Rick said, still gawping at the sky like Richard Dreyfuss in that old UFO movie. “And the damned thing had wings.”
Keltie grabbed his face, pulled it down. Her nails clawed at his cheeks. “Hey,” she barked, “I don’t care what it was. Don’t you spoil this for me. I came here for a fuck, and a fuck is what I’m going to get. Understand?” He didn’t nod right away, and his mouth still hung open, so she slapped him. “Understand?”
“Yes,” the boy gibbered finally. “Yes.”
“Good. Now put your hand back where it was. Put it back, I said!” Tentatively, Rick’s fingers found her crevice once more and slipped inside. “Good. That’s it. Oh my God, that is so it.”
“I thought Penny said you were a virgin.”
Barely hearing these words, Keltie began to rock her hips. Rick’s mouth came to her neck. His hot breath, smelling of pizza, plumed. In between pepperoni kisses she somehow found the buckle of his belt and got it open. His jeans went loose. Keltie yanked them down with her legs, underwear and all. Dry, spindly hairs scratched the insides of her thighs. She drew a deep breath, let it out, drew another. There was a whisper of fabric on soft skin as Rick slipped her panties down.
“Baby?” she gasped, her head in the stars.
“I’m here.”
“Is that your dick I feel on my leg?”
The kisses stopped. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Can I touch it? Please let me touch it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her small hand, decorated with black nail polish, groped at Rick’s pelvis. It didn’t grope for long. The knob of his brick hard cock slipped right between her fingers, giving them access to a burning shaft of skin dressed in wiry hairs.
Keltie’s eyes flew open wide. “Whoa!”
Rick’s arms lifted her tank top over her bra. “Do you like?”
“I like, I like! Holy shit, is this for real?”
He gave another laugh. “Last time I checked it was pretty real, yes.”
Keltie opened her mouth. To say what—or do what—she didn’t know, and never found out, for that was when a suave, older voice called from the swing set:
“Mister? You have five seconds to get away from that girl. If you take any longer, I promise the only intimacy you will ever know from this time forward will be with regret.”
Rick’s head snapped around. Beyond his shoulder, Keltie could see a dark figure idling next to one of the baby baskets. He was tall, he was black, he had a moustache…
And Rick dropped her before she could discern anything else. Her butt hit the ground hard. She yelped and let out a curse—Ow! Goddammit!—just as Rick stumbled and fell on his own ass. Keltie found the nearest object within reach, a small rock, and winged it at the boy’s head. It missed by a country mile, but found the window of an old car parked across the street, cracking the glass.
“Fuck!”
“Was he hurting you, Miss?” the suave black man asked. He was coming closer. A pair of black boots glided through the grass.
“No,” Keltie told him. “No, no.”
At that moment she realized something: Her butt was bare. Blades of grass poked at it, scratched it. This because Rick had pulled her panties down in the seconds before Lando Calrissian had decided to contribute his two cents to their tryst. Now all she had was her skirt.
“Stop!” she commanded.
The dark man froze. “Are you all right?”
“Oh I am absolutely peachy keen. Just don’t come any closer.” Her head whipped to the left, whipped to the right. The panties in question were black. Of course they were black. Why make them easy to find in the middle of the night with some weird guy hovering just ten feet away?
“Young man?” the weirdo was saying to Rick. “Get up. Get dressed. Go away. Now.”
Rick didn’t need a second invitation. Keltie saw him spring to his feet like an obscene jack-in-the box (a jack-off-in-a-box, she thought). He fumbled his pants and underwear back to where they were supposed to be, then tore off down Baker Street without a word.
“Chivalry,” the black man said, staring after him in disgust. “What a regal display.”
Keltie had gone way past giving a fuck about chivalry. Her panties were still gone. Things were edging into emergency territory here. She needed to cover herself up and get back on her feet so as to deal with whoever this stranger was.
“Dammit!” she hissed.
Where the fuck had the fucking things gone? Three minutes ago they’d been down around her ankles. In the time since they’d apparently grown wings like one of her goddamned napkins and flown off.
“I’m calling the police!” she yelled out, in a desperate attempt to knock the other off balance.
“Whatever for?” came his velvety reply. He had not moved from where she’d told him to stop, but his eyes were on her. Oh, were they ever.
Squeezing her knees together, Keltie said: “Well, you’ve sort of put a damper on my night.” A scowl tore across her face. She reached to find another rock to throw and—holy shit with roasted turkey and mashed potatoes!—found her panties instead.
“Are you all right?” the man asked a second time.
Keltie whipped the panties on fast enough to impress an Amish girl, then leaped to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. “Get away from me,” she told him.
“My name is Mr. Bolt.”
“Fuck off, Mr. Bolt. I mean it.”
“But the man was hurting you.”
He looked bemused, yet the tilt of his head was so slight, the shine in his eyes so steady, it was hard to tell for certain. He wore a black dress shirt, tucked into a pair of tightly pressed slacks. A gold chain hung from his collar; a gold watch around his wrist.
It took less than five seconds for Keltie to take all this in. Then she said to him: “He wasn’t hurting me. We were having fun. Which you ruined.”
Mr. Bolt’s head tilted a little more. “I’m sorry,” he said, cool as the glass of a summer drink on the beach. “I would be more than happy to redeem my mistake.” His boots moved a step closer to Keltie.
“Help!” she screamed.
“Or not,” Mr. Bolt allowed.
He froze in his tracks, staring at Keltie. His eyes, she noticed for the first time, had taken on a strange orange glow from Norwalk’s flickering, oft-vandalized streetlamps. Keltie blinked. Maybe it wasn’t the lamps. The man’s pupil’s burned. There was fire in them. Shimmering, dancing fire. Was he sick? Did he have some terminal illness that affected pigment? Probably not. Bolt looked strong. His arms were solid, his posture steady. And whether Keltie cared to admit it or not, that mustache was cool. Ice cool. A perfect counterpoint to the flare in his gaze.
“I want you to forgive my intrusion,” Bolt said. He took another step in Keltie’s direction. This time, she didn’t yell stop. “Leisure time is very important to me as well, and I find it abhorrent that I’ve spoiled some of yours.”
“It’s all right,” Keltie said, feeling more pacified by the second. “Really.”
“Thank you,” replied the poised, polished man who now towered a mere three feet from where she stood. “But I feel I can do more. I feel I c