The Shadow of Seth Read online

  “Explain.”

  “She had a chipped tooth right up front and she couldn’t stop tracing it with her tongue. She hated that chipped tooth. ‘It makes me look so cheap!’ she’d say.” I looked down at the floorboards, where my new Nike LeBrons were hidden in the shadows. “She just bought me these shoes today. Didn’t figure them for a damned going-away present.”

  We fell into silence again, which was fine by me.

  Five

  I never went back to sleep that night. Azura wrote her phone number on the palm of my hand. I brought Azura to her house in time for school, then sat in Mom’s Jeep in front of the boxing gym, listening to music, wishing a song would comfort me. None did. At ten a.m., I walked into ChooChoo’s office either to see how he was doing or to see how I was doing through his eyes. The walls of his office were lined in old boxing posters and photographs. Some of the posters listed him in the main events at big matches, including one at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas and another at Madison Square Garden in New York City.

  A few years ago, Mom had told me that ChooChoo used to box heavyweight and that’d he’d been a serious contender for the championship belt.

  “What happened?” I’d asked Mom.

  “His temper. He boxed with rage. In one of his last bouts, he beat the other guy so badly that the man couldn’t ever make a decent sentence again. Just mumbled. ChooChoo had only one match after that. In that next one, he killed a man outright. Had him up against the ropes and just kept beating him. His own trainers had to pull him off. ChooChoo wasn’t charged with a crime, but he was fined fifty thousand dollars and suspended for two years. When his suspension ended, he couldn’t get a fight. No one wanted to get into the ring with him. Finally, he quit trying and opened this gym.”

  I looked at that Madison Square Garden poster. It had been printed with a bright yellow background—but the yellow had faded in spots. A stack of big red letters said, “15 ROUNDS FOR THE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD LEON LAMONT UNDEFEATED HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION VS. CHOOCHOO BALDWIN UNDEFEATED KO KING.” On either side of the words were black-and-white images of the two boxers. A younger, thinner ChooChoo had his gloves up and a mean, steady look in his eyes. His black skin contrasted with his white shorts and shoes.

  ChooChoo had grown fat since then, but still looked powerful enough to win in the ring. Right now, he was sitting at his desk, ignoring a stack of papers. The desk also held a cheaply framed photograph of ChooChoo and my mom. I’d seen it hundreds of times, but I picked it up. The picture was about ten years old. Their heads were leaning in toward each other. Both smiled and looked worry-free. Happy was probably the right word for it.

  ChooChoo’s attention seemed to be on a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Without looking up, he said, “Y’ mom use t’ pay me three hundred a month, an’ she was my girlfrien’. You don’t have t’ pay that much, but ya gotta pay somp’n. Can ya do two hundred?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe you c’n spar some, too.”

  “Sure. I would anyway.”

  He took a sip from his cup and shuddered. “Wors’ coffee inna world. Dam’ that Manny.”

  “Take another hundred bucks off the rent and I could take care of the coffee, too.”

  “You know how t’ make coffee?”

  “I’ll learn. I guarantee it will be better than that stuff.”

  “Deal. Ya make coffee. Ya spar. An’ one hundred a month.” He looked up at me. “You okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.”

  He stared at me a few seconds and then said, “Seth, got one other condition. Ya can’t go it alone. Ya got t’ get y’self a fam’ly.”

  “A what?”

  “A fam’ly. Ya c’n stay here ’f you get y’self one.”

  “What, like you want me to get adopted?”

  “Naw. Not talkin’ ’bout no legal fam’ly. Talkin’ bout real fam’ly. People ya c’n count on. People who have t’ count on you. People who, ’f you drive ’em crazy or ev’n ’f you go crazy’ll stick by you ’n bail you outta whatever place you th’own into.”

  “I take it you mean more than just you.”

  “Y’ don’ wanna hafta depen’ on me, son.”

  After a few seconds, I said, “I’m not sure I can do that, Chooch. Family and me don’t really go together. My dad is a deadbeat and my mom is just dead. And even when she was alive, she was pretty much a dud.”

  ChooChoo jumped up from his seat and slapped me across the face, sending me sprawling toward a far wall. “Don’ talk’ ‘bout yer mom that way, boy,” ChooChoo said, looking at me from behind his desk. “She did for you ’n ways you’ll never know.”

  I stood up and walked out, with my hand to my face. I was tired of hurting.

  I went upstairs and laid on the couch, trying to sleep for a few hours. When I got up, it was mid-afternoon, which meant it would be a slow time at Guinevere’s, a coffee shop six blocks down the hill. I walked, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew along the way.

  My favorite barista at Guinevere’s was Nikki, a girl I’d had a crush on since fifth grade. Nikki was a year older than me and a grade above me. Her blond hair was cut spiky and short off her elfin ears. Her eyes were a blue so pale that she might have been birthed by wolves. She embellished the coveted parts of her body in magic marker scribbles and ever-changing henna tattoos. Today, a brown skull with snakes coming out of the eye sockets covered the skin at the unbuttoned collar of her shirt.

  The first time I ever went into Guinevere’s was the day after it opened. I’d walked in suspiciously, curious to see if a decent coffee shop was a possibility within walking distance of my home. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by Nikki, but that was all it took for Guinevere’s to instantly become one of my favorite places. I’d taken a deep breath and ordered a double shot of espresso.

  “Sure you don’t want a hot chocolate, studly?” Nikki had asked, looking at me from underneath her bangs. “Maybe with some sprinkles?”

  “I don’t like sweet stuff.”

  “Guess I’ll have to take your word for that.” Nikki took my money, smiled slightly, and put my change into her tip jar without asking. She ground the beans, tamped them firm, and shot steam through them until the brown-black espresso dripped into a tiny white cup. She handed the cup to me and watched me drink the whole thing. She nodded at me and said, “You have a natural taste for the bitter.”

  This time, when I walked into her shop, a couple of slackers sat nursing cappuccinos at tables while they hunched over their laptops. Otherwise, the café was empty. The place was tiny, with only enough seats for about a dozen narrow-bodied customers. The walls were a half-inch-thick in rock posters of local bands with names like Goldfinch, Pablo Trucker, Motopony, and Youth Rescue Mission. “White Winter Hymnal” by Fleet Foxes was playing on her stereo. The counter Nikki stood behind was red Formica and chrome, like a diner from the 1950s. “’Sup, studly? How come you weren’t at school today?”

  “I need you to show me how to make coffee.”

  “Can’t. Trade secret. If I told you, I’d have to—”

  “—kill me? Doesn’t sound so bad right now.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about.”

  Nikki shrugged. She was the rare person who knew when to stop asking questions. I explained to her matter-of-factly how ChooChoo had agreed to give me a discount on rent if I took care of the coffee at his gym.

  “Then I guess it better be good coffee. Come on back here.” I walked around the red-and-chrome counter. Nikki filled a white enamel teapot with water and set it on a gas burner. “Whatcha got to brew in?” I started describing ChooChoo’s old, stained coffeemaker until Nikki cut me off. “If you promise not to tell my boss, I can cut you a deal on some of Guinevere’s old gear—a grinder, a French press, and, unless Cho
och is gonna drink all the coffee in one sitting, a thermos. And you’re gonna need beans. I might be able to hook you up with the beans for free, if you’re nicer to me than you’re being today.”

  When she said that, I almost started bawling on the spot. I don’t know why.

  The teapot was whistling by now, so Nikki turned off the gas. The flame disappeared with a soft whup. Nikki picked up a small metal scoop and shook it at me. “Now pay attention. Good coffee is all about the details. First of all, only grind as many beans as you’re gonna make right away.”

  She poured dark brown beans into the top of the grinder and flipped a switch for a few seconds, then turned the grinder off. “See that? Coarse ground. Not espresso ground. You don’t want to grind them too fine or ChooChoo will be drinking a cup of sludge. Then you scoop out one scoop per cup. If you’re making six cups, how many scoops you gonna use?”

  “Six.”

  “Genius. If you lose the scoop, one rounded tablespoon. But don’t skimp. Scoop it in quick, because coffee starts going stale the minute it’s ground.”

  Nikki picked up the teapot. “Get your water boiling then take it off the heat before you start grinding. By the time your grinding is done, your water will be just about the perfect temperature. And make sure your French press is one hundred percent clean. If I find out you used a dirty press, I’ll ban you from this shop.” Nikki poured a few inches of steaming water into the glass cylinder. “Cover the grounds. Make sure you get them all the way wet, but don’t fill the press. The beans will gas off a bit.” Brown foam formed on the surface of the liquid as she spoke. “Then slowly pour in the rest of your water. Use a butter knife or the handle of a wooden spoon and give the coffee a quick stir to make sure you get all the flavor out of the grounds. Just a few stirs. Then put on the lid. Now we’ve got four minutes for you to tell me what the hell is going on.”

  I told her. She stared at the ceiling. When I was done, Nikki silently guided me back to the waiting coffee. She placed my hand on the plunger of the French press and pushed it down slowly. She poured the dark liquid into a white ceramic cup, then handed it to me, touching my hand as she did so. She took my hand in hers and held it as I sipped. The coffee was hot and bitter.

  Six

  I decided to go back home and call the police to see what I was supposed to do about Mom’s body. I went upstairs and called the number on Detective Carlyle’s card. He didn’t answer. I left a message.

  I was tired, so I lay down on Mom’s daybed and tried to sleep. I failed for a good hour, but finally drifted off. I woke up when the phone rang at five o’clock. It was an automated message from Heath High School. The computerized voice let me know that Seth Anomundy had missed all his classes with an unexcused absence and that if I had any questions I should call the school office.

  I’d missed school today, but what was I supposed to do tomorrow? Just go back like nothing had happened? The phone rang again and interrupted my thoughts. It was Carlyle, asking if he could come over and talk to me. I said yes and hung up.

  While I was waiting, I decided to brew a batch of coffee for ChooChoo and walked down to the car to retrieve the equipment Nikki had given me. I went outside and reached my hand in my pocket for the keys.

  Right then, a cobalt blue Volvo wagon pulled up behind me, almost hitting me with its front bumper. This wagon had seventeen-inch rims, custom paint, and “Over” by Drake rattling its tinted windows. I’d always hated that song. Four high school boys climbed out. I knew all of them, but not in a good way. Two with crew cuts wore loose practice football jerseys that couldn’t hide their round, muscular shoulders. They were twin brothers, actually, named Zach and Cody. I’d been through a few years of phys ed. classes with them, amazed at their ability to climb ropes, snap towels, and stand around naked without shame. The third kid was a thick, red-haired brute who was at least six-three and had to weigh two-fifty. His name was Carl, but everyone called him Big Red. He was on Heath’s football team, too. A fullback. Not a great open-field runner, but he could always be counted on for three yards right up the middle. The fourth, Erik Jorgenson—there was no other word for him but gorgeous. If our high school was a kingdom then Erik was the haughty prince. He seemed to letter in every sport and was the kid who always seemed to get his name mentioned at all-school assemblies. Whenever it happened, sixteen hundred kids would chant, Jor-gee, Jor-gee, Jor-gee. I’d even chanted along a few times. His dad was a surgeon and Erik was fit, tan, blond, and carrying a baseball bat.

  Gorgeous Erik led all four boys over to me and said, “What’s up, Seth? You trying to make your life difficult?”

  I was staring at that bat, wondering what answer would help me avoid adding to Erik’s batting average.

  He said, “You deaf? I asked you a question.”

  “Sorry, I was too busy focusing on that baseball bat to hear what you said. I like how you went for wood instead of aluminum. Old school.”

  “All right, smartass, how about if we skip the small talk and we just beat the crap out of you?”

  “For what?”

  “For hanging around Azura.”

  “Serious? You and her still going out? Because she didn’t mention you.”

  Gorgeous Erik pulled the bat back and swung. He missed me on purpose. Man, he had a beautiful swing. Stepped into it with his right foot with whole-body follow-through that reminded me of young Ichiro Suzuki. Erik had put in some time at the plate. I wondered how he was at fielding ground balls until Big Red snuck up on my left and hit me in the stomach. I doubled over. I hadn’t seen that one coming. “Your mouth is just making this worse, jackass” said Red. “Just shut up and keep away from her.”

  I stood back up faster than Red expected me to. All my sparring in ChooChoo’s ring had given me pretty tough abs. I popped Red in his own stomach. His hands came down to block another blow, just like I knew they would, and I landed a one-two combination on his chin, knocking him back into his friends. If they hadn’t caught him, he’d have been sitting on his butt. These North End boys never really knew how to fight. They lacked my experience—both in the ring and on the street. But that wooden bat and their superior numbers still made me nervous.

  Erik took another swing with the bat and almost hit me. He was trying this time and I could feel the wind. Zach and Cody, the two football players, were circling around behind. I didn’t know where to give my attention.

  “Hey Erik, did you even ask Azura what she thought about this?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “It’s my business if you come beating on me about it. Why don’t you send your friends home, put down the wussy bat and face me like a man?” I was hoping my stupid courage would catch them off guard.

  “Nice try,” Erik said. He was smarter than I expected. Zach and Cody rushed me and grabbed my arms before I could get away. They were strong as young gorillas. I’d have bruises on my biceps by the time they let go. Now that I couldn’t fight back, Big Red took another swing at my stomach. I had to give the boy some credit. He hit me like a sledgehammer this time. His hit lifted my feet off the ground.

  Then Gorgeous Erik took his turn. He used the bat like a battering ram and assaulted my gut. He took a swing at my face, but I pulled back enough so he only grazed the whiskers of my chin. He went after my stomach again. It hurt.

  A police siren sounded. A cop car pulled up to check out the commotion, like they tend to do in my neighborhood. Despite my pain, the flashing blue lights brought my mind back to the night before. Erik dropped the bat. His friends let go of me and adjusted their postures. I collapsed to the ground.

  From where I lay on the sidewalk, I saw the passenger door of the police car open and a pair of black boots step out. I heard the driver’s side door open and close. Another set of boots joined the first. Leather-clad hands reached down and pulled me to my feet. “What’s going on, fellas?” said the cop from the
driver’s side.

  “Nothing, officer,” said Erik. “Just hanging out.”

  I’d seen the cop driving around our streets before, but I’d never talked to him. He looked at the four strangers. “You boys aren’t from this neighborhood, are you?”

  “No sir.”

  “You should be careful around here.” He looked at me and frowned. “You there. You giving these boys any trouble?” I frowned back. The cop didn’t like that. “What’s your name again?” I told him. “Spell it.” I spelled it. S-E-T-H. A-N-O-M-U-N-D-Y. “Chambers, run a record check on this kid.” Chambers, the other cop, climbed into the patrol car and spoke on the radio for a few minutes. He stuck his head out and said, “C’mere for a second, Dix.” Dix the driver walked over and the two spoke in low tones. When he was done, Dix approached me and said, “Sounds like you had a pretty solid gathering of police here just last night. And it sounds like you got enough trouble already without hassling these boys. Seems like a strange time for you to be stirring things up. So we’ll give you a break this time. Take this as a gift—and as a warning—and stay out of trouble.” Without saying a word to the four beautiful jocks, Dix climbed into the car and he and Chambers drove away.

  “You see how it is now, son?” asked Erik, once the car was out of sight. “You see who runs the show?” His voice was fast and high. I expected him to start high-fiving his friends. He picked up the bat and poked me in the chest. “Stay away from Azura.” They left and I sat back down on the sidewalk.

  There was no way Azura sent those guys. And we hadn’t seen anyone when we were together. That meant her father, Mr. Lear, had decided to sic them on me. He probably rounded them up at the tennis club and offered them future internships at his investment firm. They were what Azura’s North End world had always looked like to me—well-funded, college-bound, and vicious.