Hit Squad (2 page)

Michael Cord!

You are invited to a special meeting of my

Special Secret Society!

The time: Noon! (Bring your lunch!)

The day: Friday, Oct. 11!

The place: Old band room in the

basement!

Purpose of society: It's a secret, dummy!

Come and find out!

Warning: Tell nobody else of this meeting!

Come alone!

Destroy this letter!

Birgit Neilsen

Birgit Neilsen. Mickey had heard the name before. Heard people mention her around the school. The only thing he knew about
her was that she was from around here, from Grandview. One of the rich kids. Why would a well-off Grandview girl invite him to a special secret society? He was a nobody from Creekside. It didn't figure.

Back when he was at Creekside Junior High he had belonged to a gang. They called themselves the Creekside Cougars, but the gang was pretty harmless. They skateboarded in deserted places late at night. Like the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. They skipped school. They sneaked into the movies for free. Big stuff. The worst thing they ever did was break into a store occasionally to steal cigarettes.

But a gang member everyone called Hulk was a real criminal. Hulk spent time in the slammer. He was the oldest and biggest member of the Cougars. Hulk wasn't too bright. The others let him think he was the leader of the gang because it made him feel important. He was big and reckless and he did whatever the other kids wanted him to do.

Mickey was the youngest and smallest member of the Cougars. They occasionally
got into real fights with kids from Grandview High who cruised Creekside in their parents' cars. Mickey didn't like fighting. In fact he hated it. But because he was small he had to act much tougher than he felt. It was all phony. They called him Suicide because he rushed into fights with his head down, eyes closed, fists swinging. He never let on to the others that he wasn't the brave and fearless fighter they thought he was. He rushed into fights because he was scared. But he was even more scared of being seen as a coward.

But that was then. The old days. The gang eventually broke up. Charlie Simms moved to Surrey. Greg Spalenka moved to Manitoba. The others quit their skateboards and took up snowboarding on the local mountains instead. Hulk's real name turned out to be Hector Coggin. He did a couple of months in a minimum-security prison somewhere out in the Fraser Valley and then they sent him back to Hobbit House. He now lived in Hobbit House with Mickey and a few other foster kids.

Mickey used to envy the well-off Grand-view kids. Then the Vancouver School Board did away with the old district boundaries, so with a whole bunch of other kids he registered at Grandview in September. He started riding his bike the two miles each way every day. He wasn't sure exactly why he had bothered to switch schools. Most of the Creekside kids preferred to walk the few blocks to their own local high school, but there were many who just wanted a change. Or they did it because they could. But Mickey set his mind on Grandview with a vague idea of bettering himself somehow. He had the idea that Grandview, because it was a rich area, would be a better school. He wanted to BE somebody. Wanted an education. Then he could get a good job and own his own car. Grandview just seemed like the logical place to start.

He soon discovered that switching to Grandview hadn't made him one of them. Most of the Grandview crowd acted kind of superior. They could tell he wasn't one of them. Even though he made the football
team he was still an outsider. He was still a kid from the East Side. He was still a kid who cycled to school in all kinds of weather. Who at Grandview would ever want to be friends with a kid who rode a bike to school when almost everyone else owned a car or, if they were under sixteen, had their parents drive them to school? Whenever he was in the dressing room with the other guys on the team, they just carried on like he wasn't there. He didn't fit in. It was like he was the invisible man.

He took another look at the letter. Birgit Neilsen. Nice name. But did he really want to join a special secret society? No. He was at Grandview to get an education. Over and out.

He stared at the letter.

But surely there'd be no harm in checking things out, would there? He could go to the meeting simply to peek into that exclusive world of smart, well-off Grandview kids. Simple curiosity, that was all it would be. An outsider looking in. No harm in that.

Life lessons, you might say.

The next morning, Wednesday, Joey Washington was beaten up in a school washroom. He was whisked to Emergency at the Vancouver General.

Mickey knew Joey pretty well, an eighth grader from Creekside. He was in the Cougars for a short time, a good fighter—fast with his feet. But then his dad found out and made him quit. Everyone in the gang liked
Joey. Nowadays he took the bus up the hill to Grandview every day. He told Mickey he just wanted a change: he was sick of Creekside. Also, Grandview had a big computer lab. He liked working with computers. Grandview parents supplied the money for them, he told Mickey. Creekside had only six computers for the whole school.

Now Joey's face looked like it had been pushed into a meat grinder. And he had broken bones. Poor Joey. It made Mickey mad just to think of it.

Joey was still on Mickey's mind a couple of days later as he shouldered his way along the crowded hallway. He pushed through the cell phones and Walkmans, and out into the yellow October sunshine. He planned to enjoy his lunch under the trees. The grass was littered with horse chestnuts. He kicked absently at spiky green shells and opened up his lunch bag. He was still thinking of Joey Washington, unable to get the picture out of his head of Joey lying broken on the washroom floor.

He started to take a bite out of his cheese-and-tomato sandwich and then remembered it was Friday, the day of the secret meeting. How could he have forgotten? He pushed the sandwich back into the bag and hurried across the grass to the band room in the school basement.

The meeting was just starting. There was one girl and a couple of the guys from the football team.

“Glad you could make it, Michael,” said the girl. “I'm Birgit Neilsen. Find yourself a seat and I'll explain why I invited you all to come.”

Michael. There it was again. The name. And coming from this classy Birgit girl it sounded to Mickey like music. She sat on an oak desk, leaning back on her hands. Her slim, designer jean-clad legs were crossed. Long blonde hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail. White shirt under a light blue cashmere sweater. Up-market. White Thorlo socks. Two-hundred-dollar Reeboks. No make-up that Mickey could see. She didn't need it.

And he knew her. Knew that face from way back, from what? Two or three years ago? That was the first time he ever saw her, a blonde kid in a car. He had never forgotten that face.

Now he knew her name: Birgit Neilsen.

It had been a night in late spring or early summer. He was about twelve, maybe thirteen. The blonde girl was riding in an overcrowded Mercedes 500 SL convertible with a bunch of other kids. The top was down and she sat up front, squashed in next to the driver. The driver was a fresh-faced senior who had probably just got his driver's license. The group was obviously from Grandview. They were slumming around Creekside. They had ended up in a dark alley behind the Safeway on Dawson Street where the Cougars were busy breaking into the back of the store for cigarettes. The Mercedes' high beams caught them in the act like escapees in a searchlight beam.

Hulk had the wrecking bar. Mickey told him what to do, quietly in his ear so it
wouldn't sound like an order. Hulk took his wrecking bar over to the throbbing Mercedes. Without breaking stride, he blinded its right eye with a well-aimed backhand swipe. Hulk didn't have a lot going for him between the ears, but he was a man of action, reacting like a caveman surprised by a roaring mastodon.

Hulk was about to do the same to the car's left eye but was stopped by the driver, Freshface, who leaped out of the car with a yell and stood between Hulk and the car headlight, his fists ready. Hulk hadn't expected anyone to challenge him. Hulk was way over six feet, weighed 180 pounds and had the wrecking bar. Freshface would be slaughtered. But Hulk's hesitation cost him the rest of the battle because the cute blonde kid—she couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen—stepped out of the car and stood between Hulk and Freshface.

Mickey could see she was scared. She said to Hulk, a quiver in her voice, “Go away and leave us alone.”

Hulk just stood there with his mouth
hanging open, puzzled. He was like King Kong the first time he ever saw the girl.

While Hulk was gaping, the girl grabbed Freshface and dragged him back into the car. The other four kids in the car were terrified. They just sat there saying nothing, their faces all shadows and fear.

Mickey had been standing back, behind Hulk. The rest of the gang, five of them that particular night, were hanging loose, grins on their faces, enjoying Hulk's embarrassment as the Mercedes roared off down the lane.

Afterwards, Mickey thought about the nerve of that blonde kid. Even though she was scared, she faced up to Hulk. Hulk in his black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. Menacing her with muscles, tattoos and a thirty-inch wrecking bar! Plus the tough-looking-but-mostly-harmless Cougars behind him in the glare of that single headlight.

The blonde kid hadn't noticed Mickey, of course. Back then he was only a skinny kid with a dirty face.

And now, here she was again. A couple of years older. She was looking into Mickey's eyes. She didn't know him. But he recognized her all right. He'd never forget the way she'd stood there, the beam from the Mercedes backlighting her hair, and Mickey feeling like a frog, awestruck at the sight of the beautiful princess.

The band room was a quiet place. It was separated from the noise of the school by a long corridor and by its lonely basement location. Birgit's voice was low, her upper-crust tones casual. Mickey willed his eyes from her face and looked at Peter Miller lounging easily beside her.

“You both know Peter from the football team,” said Birgit, smiling up at Peter.

They were a couple. It was obvious. Peter was an eleventh grader.

Peter smiled back at her like he owned her.

Freshface from years ago? Mickey wondered. No. Peter was only two years older than Mickey. Freshface, whoever he was, was graduated and long gone.

Peter was big and good-looking: blue eyes, expensively cut hair that flopped carelessly over onto his forehead. He wore sharp-looking jeans, cell phone clipped to the belt, white shirt, maroon sweater, Nike Airs. He and Birgit sat on the desk like a pair of matching bookends. He smiled. White, even teeth. “Hi, Michael,” he said, following Birgit's lead.

It was the first time any member of the team had ever called Mickey by name—any name, Mickey or Michael.

Mickey nodded and lowered himself onto an old collapsed sofa beside Whisper. Whisper's real name was Winston Smith. He was a husky, thick-necked kid, almost as wide as he was tall. His face wore a permanent
grin. Everyone on the football team called him Whisper because of his quiet, scratchy voice.

Whisper didn't seem to notice that Mickey was there. His eyes were locked on Birgit. “So tell us what we're doing here, baby,” he asked her, grinning.

Except for two bottles of Snapple parked beside them on the desk, neither Birgit nor Peter appeared to have any lunch. They sat composed and unsmiling. They looked Mickey and Whisper over for several seconds without saying a word.

Mickey took a bite of his cheese-and-tomato sandwich and discovered he was no longer hungry. He dropped the sandwich back into the bag. He studied Birgit, comparing the girl he saw before him now with that gutsy kid who had faced up to Hulk that night in the alley. He had admired her then, and he admired her now. She was older now, of course, and more sure of herself. Her hair was shining and fine like silk. He waited for her to speak.

“I called this meeting,” she said, “because you boys have something in common: you're football players and you're tough.”

“Tough?” said Whisper.

Birgit smiled. “That's right, Whisper. I've watched you on the football field. You're like a bulldozer.”

Birgit looked at Mickey. “You too, Michael. I heard you nailed one of the Agostino brothers Monday with your locker door. Too bad they ganged up on you. I hear that you're smart. And I've seen you play football. You play like it's a war.”

Mickey said nothing. This was embarrassing. He was no tough guy. Everyone seemed to think that because you came from Creekside you were tough. And Birgit could tell by just looking at him that he wasn't one of them, that he was a Creekside kid.

Birgit turned to Peter. “And Peter is mean and tough when he needs to be.”

Peter grinned, like a well-fed cat. Mickey half expected him to purr.

Whisper hadn't taken his eyes off Birgit. “We're tough. So what? Why are we here?”

“Before I answer that,” said Birgit, “let me ask a question: Do you think this is a good school?”

Whisper cracked his knuckles. “It's okay, I guess.”

“Michael?” Birgit uncrossed her legs.

Mickey shrugged. He was starting to discover that Grandview wasn't too much different from Creekside. He didn't say anything; Birgit had him tongue-tied.

Peter jumped in. “Grandview's a zoo! That's what I think!”

Whisper's grin disappeared for a moment while he nodded thoughtfully. “Peter's right, it's a friggin' zoo.” He looked across at Mickey for the first time. “Ain't that the truth? A friggin' zoo?” Deep furrows in his worried brow.

Mickey shrugged again. He didn't like Whisper too much. The way he cracked his knuckles. The way he talked, like he was Tony Soprano.