The Junkyard Boys
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
Copyright © 2016 by SH Richardson
First Edition: 2016
Formatting: CP Smith
Affordable Formatting
Editing: Julia Goda
Editing Services
Cover By:
Sweet Lush Photography & Design
, Dollar Photo Club.
To my two beautiful children, “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss it, you will land among the stars.” To my wonderful husband for always being there for me…I adore you.
Range
Collection day was my favorite day of the month. Most people favored weekends or holidays, but not me. No way, baby. Give me collection day any day. I gave myself a once-over in the mirror, noticing my shirt was clean and pressed to perfection along with my jeans. This ritual of never leaving the house without clean and pressed clothing was unfortunately a reflection of my poor childhood and upbringing. The only time you’d catch me unkempt was when I was working in the junkyard. During working hours, it was almost impossible not to get filthy; but as soon as my workday was over, I took a beeline straight to the shower and clean clothes. This of course, was usually met with a lot of grief from my friends, who constantly called me a “primping bitch” and gave me shit about my grooming needs. I never let this worry me since I knew it was just their way of poking fun and not meant to be hurtful. My friends knew about my past and could hardly blame me for having a few “issues.”
Satisfied I passed inspection, I made my way to my truck, grabbing my keys and wallet on the way out the door. As soon as I stepped outside, the light breeze hit me in the face and blew my longish hair in every direction. One would think that with my compulsive grooming habits having longer hair would be a deal breaker for me, but this unfortunately was also one of those things my childhood nightmares were made of. Fortunately, the ladies seemed to like it this way. As I made my way to my truck, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to a time in my life when things weren’t so simple and surviving day to day seemed nearly impossible.
“All right, class, let me introduce our new student to you. His name is Range Reardon and he just moved here to Remington. Everyone, say hello to Range and let’s give him a warm welcome, shall we?”
I took a quick look around the classroom filled with all the clean-cut boys and girls, and slowly felt my face start to heat up from embarrassment. They all looked so pristine and youthful with their colorful shirts and bright eyes. Some of the girls had bright bows in their hair and wore frilly skirts with short ankle socks to match. The boys all had nice haircuts and clean faces, each wearing tennis shoes or loafers to fit the style. I could tell as soon as they took one look at me that I was totally out of place with this group of kids. My shirt had a hole in it right at the collar and my jeans were too small, which also meant they were too short for my tall but slender frame. I reached up and scratched the top of my head, noticing how all the girls scrunched up their noses at me, probably considering it was a fair bet I had lice. My nails were dirty underneath and we had run out of toothpaste the day before, so I could only brush with water. I didn’t have a notebook or a pen to my name, but school was free, so I didn’t have to worry about not being allowed to attend. I could also get a free meal here, which would probably be my only meal of the day, considering my old man was not much of a cook even if we had the money to buy groceries. One of the girl students in the back of the classroom raised her hand as if she had a question.
“Mrs. Greene, I don’t want him to sit next to me. He looks funny and probably smells like a stray dog and has the fleas too.”
I felt my eyes begin to sting and my nose start to tickle, and I knew I would start crying any moment. All of the children started laughing and pointing at me, while Mrs. Greene tried to gain order in her classroom. But it was too late. The damage was done. While the teacher was attempting to quiet the class, I took off running down the hall. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to get out of there and fast. I ran and ran, not knowing which direction I was headed to or how far I was going. It was only after I could no longer feel my legs that I slowed down and took a look at my surroundings. I was standing in front of a sign that said “Buck’s Junkyard Private Property.” The sign was resting on top of a huge gate clearly designed to
keep people out when it wasn’t open for business. But since I was small enough in stature, I was
able to climb through to the other side fairly easily. As I took a look around the vast yard, I noticed there were cars everywhere. Old cars piled on top of other old cars, different colors and models, but they were all flattened in big heaps on top of one another. I took a few steps forward and could see there were rows upon rows of cars everywhere, even a few cars lying against a tree. I went to take a step further when a hand landed on my shoulder, stopping me in place.
“What the fuck you doin’ here, boy? Don’t you read good?” That voice was so harsh and gruff the owner must be a serious smoker. What I saw made all breath leave my lungs in a flash: a giant, at least to my twelve-year-old body. The man standing before me was massive. He had bulging muscles in his arms and tattoos that ran from his neck all the way down to the tips of his fingers. I could tell by the wrinkles around his eyes that he was an older man, probably in his forties or so. He had silver streaks running through his too long hair and a beard that was braided with a rubber band attached to the end of it. “Did you hear me, boy? I said, what the fuck you doin’, sneaking around here when we’re closed? Don’t you know you could get hurt fucking around this place? Are you retarded or something? Answer me when I’m talking to you!”
I could see in his eyes he was clearly pissed off, so I thought I should go with the truth. “I ran away from school, ‘cause they were making fun of me, and I just ended up here. I wasn’t going to touch anything, I promise. I was just looking around.” At my explanation, the big man folded his arms over his chest and just stared at me. It was right in that moment when my head began to itch like crazy and all I could do was reach up and scratch it like my life depended on it. The man looked me up and down, noticing the too small clothes and ratty tennis shoes, and began to speak again. I’m Buck. This here is my place. What’s your name, boy?” Again, I decided the truth was the best option with the man I now knew as Buck. “My name is Range. Range Reardon. Pleased to meet you, Sir.” This got me a big grunt and a scowl, then he uncrossed his arms and pointed a meaty finger at me in response: “Just Buck, boy, no fucking sirs around here.” To this, I simply nodded. I mean, what else was I going to say to this guy? I had to scratch my head again, and Buck most certainly took notice. The way he was looking at me should have frightened me, but I had seen a lot in my too few years and this man did not raise any red flags for some reason. He was looking as if he was trying to figure out what he was going to do with me. He took a deep breath and used his right hand to caress his beard while speaking. “Follow me to the back so we can get something to eat. It’s breakfast time and I’m hungry. Just lookin’ at your little ass, I can tell you don’t each much, so you must be hungry too. I ain’t gonna hurt you, kid, but I sure as fuck can’t leave your ass out here alone. Bring your little narrow ass and follow me.”
Breakfast sounded great to me, and since right at that moment my stomach decided to growl as well, I thought it best to follow Buck to the back.
Little did I know that Buck would save my life that day, and then give me a new one. I shook off those lingering thoughts as I made my way to my truck, once again excited about collection day. With a smile on my face and the wind in my hair, I set off to my destination like a fucking boss.
Clover
“Rise and shine, M&M, mom says it’s time for you to get ready for work.”
Ugh, I hated that name, but no matter how many times I told them to stop calling me that, all I got was a smile and a blow-off. My sisters seemed to find this extremely funny, but I never thought it was and probably never would. Them calling me the milkman’s daughter started years ago and got shortened gradually over time to just M&M. It was an ongoing joke in my family that either I was adopted or belonged to the milkman. My sisters were all tall, skinny model types with straight, dark hair and dark eyes. I, of course, was short with brownish-blond hair and a strange sort of hazel-grey mix eye color. My parents should be offended by this behavior from their own children, considering most of the neighborhood thought the same thing and never took issue with asking all sorts of fucked-up questions. One neighbor went so far as to suggest going down to the local library to help research adoption and DNA testing. Needless to say, I was so hurt that day I cried for an hour. I rarely cried about this anymore; now I just got mad and frustrated with my parents’ inability to make it stop. Stretching, I took a quick look at my alarm clock and got my mad ass out of bed so I could get ready for the day.
Freshly showered and ready to face my day, I took one more quick moment to give myself a pep talk before I descended the stairs. I could predict how this short interaction with my family was going to go before I even got close to the bottom step: my dad lying on the couch with his house slippers on, reading the newspaper, and my mom in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Although I was only twenty-two, my dad retired several years ago from his job as head chef in an upscale restaurant in New York City. He decided that since the property taxes and cost of living were so high there, we should move here to Virginia and live in my grandmother’s house since it was paid for and she was no longer living. We packed up and moved without giving it a second thought.
I made my way into the den and yelled out a greeting to Denny—as we all called my dad—and he threw his hand up in his usual greeting. He hated to be disturbed while he was reading the morning paper. He said it ruined his entire day. Considering he watched soap operas until he fell asleep, I didn’t really see how this was possible, but whatever. As I neared the kitchen, I could hear my mom talking to my sisters and knew the fun was just about to begin.