And then I ran to join him.
Boyboy says, “I don’t have a scar from when you saved me from those kids. They knew I couldn’t swim. You don’t have a scar from that day either, but I can cut you now, if it’ll help you think straight.”
He sits back. He seems to be waiting for me to get something on my own, like a little kid sounding out a word for the very first time. And suddenly I understand what Boyboy’s saying. It is so obvious and he’s right. I really am an idiot. What I realize is this:
Boyboy is my friend.
Michael is my friend.
Whether I like it or not. Whether I admit it or not.
I have all my rules, act like I know everything, pretend like I’m in control. But they know the truth. I’m broken and messed up.
And you know what? They don’t care.
They stick with me. They stick up for me. It’s because of me that they’re out here now, and because of me they didn’t leave days ago. Michael may have come to clear his father’s name, but he stayed because he’s still the same kid who got punched in the nose for me all those years ago. And Boyboy has always been my partner in crime. That’s why he came back here with me.
What I realize is not really a rule—it’s just true:
They exist to me.
And I exist to them.
THIRTY-EIGHT
You’re my friend,” I say softly.
Boyboy rolls his eyes, but the sag in his shoulders says he’s relieved. “Yes, Tina.”
“You love me.”
“Now, don’t get carried away.”
“You’re going to help me. That’s what you’re telling me. We have to rescue Michael. Together. We can figure this out.”
“There’s my Tiny Girl.”
I wipe my face on my arm and try to hold on tight to what I’m feeling. “Where are they keeping him?”
Boyboy nods at a tent on the other side of the camp. “I saw them take him in there.”
A couple of militia guys sit out front, keeping watch. Unfortunately for us, they don’t look nearly as drunk as the others.
“Is he hurt?”
“He looked okay. He was walking,” Boyboy says.
We sit in silence for a few moments, watching the tent, trying to think what to do. Something, anything. I look hard at the camp. What can we use? Along with the tents for Michael and Omoko, there are others for cooking and storage. I count two flatbed trucks and three off-road motorcycles. There are drums that might be full of water, or more likely petrol for the vehicles. Plenty of weapons to go around. Including . . .
“RPGs,” I say. “That’s what he’s going to use to blow up Mr. Greyhill’s helicopter once they take off. Maybe we can sabotage them somehow.”
“Role-playing games?” Boyboy asks, frowning.
I nod toward several newish-looking wooden crates. “Rocket-propelled grenades, nerd.”
Slowly, Boyboy sits up straighter. “Omoko brought those. And I’m pretty sure the head militia guy gave him a backpack full of gold in return. Either that or a sack of rocks.”
“Omoko’s trading with the militias,” I say slowly. “That’s not Goonda work. He’s getting back into the gold-buying business.” I wonder if he’s the comptoir Mr. Greyhill came to check on. I shake my head. “That doesn’t matter right now. Let’s focus on making sure he doesn’t kill any Greyhills.”
“Getting rid of the grenade launchers won’t help,” Boyboy says. “He’ll just find some other weapon.”
He’s right. I push the gears in my brain to crank to life and think harder.
Just then there’s a shout and we look over to see two bodies swinging at each other, then falling in a heap. The tension between the Goondas and the militia dudes has just boiled over.
“Come closer,” I whisper to Boyboy. “I think I can reach your hands.”
Boyboy looks around, but everyone is now watching the fight. He scoots closer, and I stretch to feel the metal biting against his skin and the stickiness of his blood. “They shouldn’t have tied us up together,” I say.
“Ketchup has never been the brightest,” Boyboy replies. “But those are zip ties. Metal ones. They’re impossible to undo.”
“You forget you’re talking to a master thief.”
“Thief, not Houdini.”
“And Ketchup forgets that Bug Eye taught me a few tricks.”
The ties around our wrists are tight, but after investigating with my fingers, I think all I need is a tiny, flat piece of metal. Luckily, I can still feel a bobby pin tucked in my hair where it can’t be seen. Good old bobby pins. They never let me down.
Unluckily, I need my hands to get it.
“Boyboy, you’re going to have to get the pin that’s in my hair.”
“A what? A bobby pin? How am I supposed to do that?”
I look up at the melee. “Bite it out.”
“Are you crazy? You think no one’s going to notice me chewing on your head?”