Scar Island(38)

“Yeah. I don’t like it out there either.”

They stood looking at each other for a second. Then Jonathan’s eyes dropped away and Sebastian walked over to a low dresser. A basket full of the Admiral’s chocolates was on top. All around it, and spilling onto the floor, were wadded-up empty gold wrappers.

Sebastian unwrapped a chocolate and popped it into his mouth.

“You want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“They’re almost gone, you know. The chocolates, I mean. And without the damned key, I can’t get into the Admiral’s office to get any more.”

Jonathan looked up at him. “I’m glad we can’t get in there,” he said quietly.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Jonathan didn’t blink or hesitate. “Because our files are in there. All the lists of the bad things we’ve done. The bad things we are.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I like it better like this. We’re just the Scars, together. Whatever we did out there doesn’t matter.” He looked at Sebastian. “If that door opens, we just become our crimes again.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of Sebastian’s noisy chewing. Then he asked a question, but his mouth was so full and sticky that Jonathan didn’t understand it at first.

“What?”

Sebastian swallowed.

“I said, why are you so damned sad? I never seen a kid as sad-looking as you all the time.”

Jonathan looked away, around the room, then over at the window. Through the thick glass, he could see gathering black storm clouds.

Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own.

“How come you never write a letter, Sebastian?”

There was no answer for a long time. The gold wrapper fell from Sebastian’s hand and fluttered to the thick rug on the floor.

“Shut up, Johnny,” he finally said. “Go on, get out of here.”

Jonathan nodded and walked to the door. Sebastian followed him and stood in the doorway.

“It’s funny,” he said, just before he closed the door in Jonathan’s face. “You wanna stay because here you get to be nothing. And I wanna stay because here I get to be something.”

The door closed with a click, and Jonathan stood for a moment before finding his way back downstairs to join the others.



Jonathan’s toes connected solidly with the ball, sending it bouncing across wet stone to Walter’s waiting feet. The ball—an ancient leather soccer ball that someone had found in an old storeroom—was hard enough that it actually hurt a little to kick it. Walter loved it, though, and was always pleading with the other boys to come out and play soccer. Walter passed it back and forth between his feet a few times and then launched it to Jonathan.

It was almost dinnertime, and the sky was getting dark. The game Walter had tried to organize had been called off when the clouds started to sprinkle, and only Jonathan and Walter were left outside.

“How you think Colin’s doing?” Walter asked.

Jonathan kicked the ball back to him.

“I don’t know. Fine, probably. He’s pretty smart.”

“Pretty? That kid’s crazy smart. He ain’t, like, super tough, though, you know?”

Jonathan sighed.

“Yeah. I’m worried about him. He’s, uh, not exactly the Slabhenge type.”

Walter laughed.

“Slabhenge type? Is anybody? I mean, what’s the ‘Slabhenge type,’ man?”

Jonathan pursed his lips thoughtfully. He thought of Miguel and his wicked grin. He thought of Tony, who always cooked up something crazy in the kitchen and tried to get other kids to try it. He thought of Jason, a kid who supposedly stole cars but tried to slip a note to his mom because he just wanted to go home. He thought of quiet David, busted and sent here for fighting back. He thought of Walter, laughing and begging kids to come outside and play. He even thought of Sebastian, who acted so tough but who had noticed Jonathan’s sadness and asked about it.

“I don’t know,” he answered. Then he grinned and looked toward the dining room. “Roger and Gregory, I guess,” he said in a low voice. “And Benny. Benny’s definitely the Slabhenge type.”

Walter returned the grin.

“Oh, yeah. He fits right in here with the rats, don’t he?”

The ball tumbled back and forth between them.

“You know, you’ve never asked me,” Walter said.

“Asked you what?”

“You’ve never asked what we all ask. Why we’re here. Don’t you wanna know what I did?”

Jonathan rubbed at his nose with his sleeve. He looked up at the clouds, black like coal smoke.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s not my business.” The words came out sounding ruder and harsher than Jonathan had meant.

There was a low rumble of thunder. That and the muffled thuds of their feet kicking leather were the only sounds.

“Okay,” Jonathan finally said. “Why are you here?”

Walter smiled, his teeth shining whitely in the growing gloom.

“I thought you’d never ask!” He slapped his hands together. “Mother’s Day, man.”

“Mother’s Day?”

“Yeah. Check this out. Around the corner from our place is this shop that sells all this little fancy stuff. You know, gloves and watches and hats and stuff. It’s my mama’s favorite store. She’s in there, like, every day. And she’s always going on about this purse that’s in the window, right? One of a kind, it says, custom-made. This big ugly pink thing. And I know Mother’s Day is coming up. I don’t got any money, but I wanna get my mama something nice, you know? Now, there’s no chance of me affording it. And no chance of me just sticking it under my shirt, either, ’cause Mrs. Swanson who owns the place always has her stink eye glued to me whenever I’m in there. So the night before Mother’s Day, I break in.”