Monday morning comes like a sucker punch. The fear of returning to school, fighting our way through the protestors, and worrying about who might assault me is crippling. When I finally will myself out of bed, I step out of my room and find ten police officers waiting for me. It’s like a nightmare that has haunted me for years. Mom and I have been discovered, and the police knock down the door to take us away. They file into our apartment, endlessly marching through the door, crawling in through the windows, popping out of closets, until we are literally drowning in cops. But what I’m seeing now isn’t a dream, because these cops are actually standing around in our apartment, drinking coffee and ogling my mom in her pink sleeping shorts.
“Hi, honey,” she says as she rushes around topping off everyone’s mugs and smiling. “These are your bodyguards. They’re going to make sure you get back and forth to school safely.”
“So we’re taking the subtle approach?”
“We’re not taking any chances,” my father says as he straps on his holster and gun.
Bex is overjoyed by our escorts. She loves any kind of attention, but it makes me nauseous. There’s nothing inconspicuous about an army of police officers walking me to school, and I feel it’s going to turn me into a target. Still, I hurry to get dressed. It’s still dark outside, which means most people will still be asleep. If I’m lucky, we’ll get to school before the crazies roll out of bed. In minutes, we’re all stepping into the hallway, but guess who’s waiting for us?
“You’re up early this morning,” my father says to Mrs. Novakova.
Her big purple eyes frisk me, then the cops.
“What did she do? Is it drugs? Don’t sell drugs in building,” she says.
“She didn’t do anything,” my father says.
“Ten cops for two girls isn’t nothing. You know I find out,” she says.
“I have no doubt,” my dad says between gritted teeth.
“You men should join the CI9. You be heroes,” Mrs. Novakova snaps as we pile into the elevator. “Coney Island doesn’t need police. Already useless if you ask me. I call you every day. There are people in 2A and 14L who need questioning. Very suspicious, very strange hours, won’t talk to anyone, and where are police? Walking girls to school!”
“Have a good day,” I say, then push the Close Doors button. The old woman’s face puckers, and she sticks out her tongue to lick her lips. I swear it was green. I bet it’s forked. I bet she can smell with it.
My bodyguards peer into parked cars and around corners. They change our route when they spot someone coming our way. They watch the windows, looking for the flutter of a curtain or a light in a window. They climb up on rooftops and watch us from above. They communicate back and forth on their radios, sharing information, suggesting more changes in course. They know before the gang appears. There are eight or nine of them, some teenagers, the rest full-grown adults. The men are paunchy and amped on something. Each has a bat or a pipe. One of the girls carries a chunk of a masonry block. They follow us for a while, until they get bold enough to walk alongside. All of them are wearing Niner shirts.
“Are you guys looking for trouble?” my father shouts at them.
Their leader is chunky, a combination of muscle and overindulgence. He has a mangy three-day beard and a Balkenkreuz tattoo on his neck. He smiles and plays innocent. “No, sir, we’re just out for our morning walk. You know what they say about exercise.”
“Why don’t you go get your exercise on another street?”
“Free country, isn’t it, officer?”
“Is it?” another cop asks. His gun comes out.
The gang stops and watches us disappear down a side street.
“I think we can thank Mrs. Novakova for that,” my father says to me.
When we get to the school, there is a thin gathering of protestors sipping coffee and digging into a big box of Krispy Kremes. It’s early and they aren’t ready for us. Bachman is nowhere in sight, and without her the diehards seem directionless, almost lethargic. Most of the news vans are quiet too, and I don’t see any reporters. They must be putting on another layer of makeup before the show starts. With no one to harass us, we stroll through the barricades and approach the school. Mr. Doyle is waiting at the front step with his ever-present mug of coffee. He takes a sip, then smiles at me like we’re old friends.
“Welcome back. Are you feeling better?”
My father slugs him. Doyle takes the punch and manages to stay on his feet, but he drops the mug and it explodes. It’s astounding. My father has at least twelve inches on him and fifty pounds, plus I don’t think he held anything back. Doyle reaches up and rubs his jaw.
“Don’t you ever send that kid to my house again!” my father barks.