“Why didn’t you pick her up after school?” my mother asks.
“She didn’t go to school today. Tito said he thought she was with you. Summer, call her and tell her we’re coming over to get her now. I feel like I have to protect someone I care about today or I’m going to lose my mind.”
Bex lives in a depressing three-family townhouse owned by a criminally delinquent landlord. The halls are filthy, there’s a meth dealer on the first floor, and hot water is infrequent at best. I complain about how bad our apartment is, but it’s a mansion compared with Bex’s place, and we don’t have a sadist living with us. When we round the corner, we find the sadist in question. Russell is sitting in a plastic lawn chair on the sidewalk outside their stoop, the king of nowhere, His Majesty on a ten-dollar throne. He ties his scraggly hair back into a stubby ponytail and wears a sweat-soaked wife-beater tank top that has earned its name. He’s also got on running shorts that have never been used for their intended purpose. If anything, they should be called “sitting around leering at teenage girls” shorts, or “practicing being a sociopath” shorts. When he spots us coming, he grimaces and pours the tall boy he’s nursing onto the sidewalk.
“See any freaks today?” he asks us.
“Where’s Bex?” my father says.
“Saw them on TV. They finally let the fish heads into the schools. You know what? They should sell some fish sticks in the cafeteria.” He laughs. It’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“I’m going in after her, Russell,” my father says.
Russell stops laughing and snarls. “Hold up. Bex, get your ass down here!”
A moment later, Bex comes down the stairs. Her bottom lip is swollen to twice its normal size, and she’s pale and blotchy.
“Did he do that to you, Bex?” my father asks.
She shakes her head, but her eyes say yes.
“Satisfied?” he growls at us, then turns back to Bex. “Get back upstairs and help your mother with those broken dishes.”
“Bex, I can’t do anything unless you tell me what happened,” my father cries.
“She said nothing happened, dude,” Russell shouts.
“What’s the matter? Did you get tired of beating on Tammy?” I say.
Russell turns red and lunges from his chair, but he stops in his tracks when my father gets in his face.
“I wouldn’t,” Dad says, low and mean.
Russell eases back into his chair.
“Bex, get your things,” I say.
“Naw, she’s staying here tonight with her family,” Russell says. “Go on, girl.”
Bex’s face is pleading. Fear is not something I’m used to seeing on my best friend’s face.
“Bex, get your things,” my father orders.
“You can’t come here and order her around,” Russell crows.
My father knocks him out of his seat and rolls him onto his belly. He plants his knee into Russell’s back and locks handcuffs on his wrists. All the while the little troll screams and curses.
“You’re under arrest for domestic battery,” my father says. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“No,” Bex says softly. “It just makes things worse.”
“Bex, get your stuff!” my dad shouts. “Now!”
She darts into the house while Russell continues his rant.
“I’m gonna sue you, pig! I’m gonna take everything you have. You can’t come over here and kidnap my kid.”
My father ignores him and takes out his radio. He calls for transport and gives the address, then suggests they bring a drug-sniffing dog, which causes Russell to curse even louder.
“I bet your neighbor is going to be real happy when he finds out you’re the reason his apartment got raided,” my dad taunts.
Bex rushes down the steps with a shopping bag full of stuff. Her mother is right behind, shrieking and crying and with mascara all over her face, but her tears are not for her daughter. They’re for herself and Russell.
“You can’t just come here and take my daughter from me!” she screams.
“You’re right, Tammy, I can’t. So why don’t we just do this by the book? I’ll call the precinct and have the social workers come down and file some reports, do an inspection, and make sure the house is clean and full of food. They’ll take some statements, interview the neighbors—you know, all that thorough paperwork. We’ll sit outside and wait for them to confirm you’re a fit mother. I’m sure there won’t be any problems, right?”
Tammy shares a look with Russell, then turns to her daughter. “You be back tomorrow.”
“She’s staying the weekend,” I say. “Maybe longer.”
A squad car arrives and two cops get out. They pull Russell to his feet and stuff him in the back seat.
“Hey, Lenny!” Russell shouts before they close the door in his face. “I heard your daughter is buddy-buddy with a fish head. You need to keep an eye on her. It would be a shame if she ended up like that kid they dragged behind a truck.”