Sons of the 613 Read online

  “Josh, where are we going?”

  “Hear some music.”

  “Music?”

  “A band.”

  “Are you serious? What about Lisa?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “What if she wakes up and we’re gone?”

  “I left a note. She has my cell number.” He’s climbing into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

  “I don’t want to hear music, Josh!”

  “It’s part of the Quest. Get in.”

  We take the highway toward the city, the skyline growing as we approach.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Downtown Edina?”

  He laughs.

  “Downtown Minneapolis. A club.”

  My anxiety grows. Downtown? The city? I’ve only been in the city a few times, always during the day. True, Temple Israel is nearby, but we always get there in the protective shell of the car, go straight inside, and return in the car again, all without interacting with any dangerous characters or influences. There are weird people downtown. Things could happen. I feel like he’s telling me we’re going to Baghdad. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “Well, stop looking like it.”

  We drive on the freeways, cloverleafing from one to the next until we’re pointing at the skyscrapers, and then we’re leaving the freeways to pull into what looks like a warehouse district, old brick buildings flanking the streets, rising up five or six stories. The upper windows are dark, but here and there on the sidewalk level are restaurants and bars, some with small groups of people standing outside, talking and smoking. It all seems very foreign and wrong and threatening to me.

  Josh is steering, looking ahead, but he seems to sense what I’m feeling. “We’ve got to get you to New York,” he says. “Get you out of Edina.”

  “No, no, we really don’t.”

  “Yeah, we do. Let you see what a real city is like. You’re freaked out by this? This is like a toy city. And Edina?” He shakes his head.

  He sounds like my parents. They’re always telling me that when I go off to college I’ll go to the East Coast and understand. When I tell them that I don’t want to leave, that I like Edina, they give each other a certain look, a look I’ve come to realize means, How did we raise a child like this?

  In civics we were learning about the immigrant experience, and there was an essay by a woman whose parents were from China. Thirty years they lived in America, she said, and they still never considered it home, always believing that at any moment they would move back to their real home. That’s my parents, I thought.

  Josh turns onto a smaller, darker, less trafficked street and parks at the curb.

  “I think we should just go home,” I say as he’s stepping out of the car. It’s the third or fourth time I’ve said it in about ten minutes. It has the same effect on him as the earlier repetitions: nothing.

  “C’mon,” he says.

  “No. This is stupid. I’m not going.”

  “Okay.”

  He shuts his door and walks off. I sit there for a moment and catch sight of myself in the mirror, then sigh in exasperation and climb out of the car and follow him. He’s thirty feet away already and holds the key remote over his shoulder and locks the door without looking, not slowing down or turning to see if I’m behind him.

  He disappears around the corner and I scurry to catch up, feeling vulnerable outside the bubble of strength and confidence he projects. When I round the corner I get a brief jolt of panic as I search for him, then spot him in the short line of people waiting to get into a club that’s halfway down the block.

  When I get there he’s reached the doorman, a big guy with a shaved head and a leather jacket. They seem to know each other, doing that jock greeting that guys like them do: the soul handshake that turns into a quick off-center embrace, their left hands thumping each other once on the back, their gazes bored and expressionless and focused elsewhere, just in case someone might get the wrong idea that they actually like each other or have any friendliness inside them at all.

  Josh registers my presence next to him and says, “Let’s go,” and steps through the door ahead of me. I glance at the doorman, who pays no attention to me, his dead-eye gaze already shifted to the next customer in line.

  In the vestibule between the double doors I ask Josh how he got in.

  “Do you have a fake ID?”

  “Don’t need a fake ID here,” he says, and opens the next set of doors.

  The noise that greets us is so loud, it feels like a physical barrier thumping against my chest. It takes me a bit to organize the distorted sound into parts that resemble music. The room is dark and crowded, people pressed up against the bar and gathered in front of the stage, where the band is tearing through some sort of metal-punk hybrid song.

  I hang back as Josh shoulders his way to the bar. I get a few curious glances from people and I quickly look the other way, afraid of eye contact, wishing I were home. Josh reemerges with a beer. I know that he drinks, but this is the first time I’ve ever really seen him do it, and there’s something almost shocking about it. Josh goes right past me, holding his beer just like an adult does, confident and relaxed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I tag along as he makes his way toward the back, wondering if he’s forgotten about me entirely. He finds an open spot and stands there facing the stage, sipping the beer, nodding distractedly to the music and scanning the crowd. I plug my ears.

  And that’s what we do for the next several songs: me standing there grimacing with my fingers jammed in my ears, feeling stupid, Josh totally ignoring me.

  After a while I start to get used to the situation, relaxing a bit, maybe even enjoying the music a little. It’s not so bad, really. I’m in a club with my older brother, listening to music. Has Danny, Steve, or Paul been to a club like this? No. To be honest, this is sort of cool. Everything will be okay.

  And that’s when I notice the guy coming straight at me from my right.

  He’s big, as big as Josh, a fierce-looking punk with a red Mohawk and a motorcycle jacket and spikes and studs and big black boots, marching with purpose directly toward me, his fists clenched, looking like violent death personified.

  I feel a rush of terror and adrenaline and turn toward Josh for help, but it’s too late—the guy is just a step away, and now he’s on top of me, but then he’s brushing past me and I realize it’s Josh he’s heading for and something horrible is about to happen.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN WHICH THE MYSTERY OF JOSH DEEPENS

  MERIT BADGE: ATTACK BY PUNK ROCKER

  There’s no time to warn Josh, no time to even shout something, before the punk jabs out a stiff arm and gives Josh a brutal, jarring shove on the shoulder.

  The impact jolts Josh sideways a step or two, beer erupting from the bottle he’s holding. Josh pivots in surprise, his face registering bewilderment and then instantaneous fury, and I feel my knees nearly buckle from the fear of what’s about to happen. And then Josh’s expression changes again, shifting from angry incomprehension to recognition, then a huge smile, and then he and the punk guy are embracing and pounding each other on the back and laughing.

  I watch them as they have a shouted conversation, a conversation punctuated with enthusiastic fist bumps and high-fives, the two of them leaning close to scream in each other’s ears over the music. Josh points to me and says something, and the punker nods, then leans over and shouts, “What’s up, little dude?” and offers me a hand. I’m not sure whether to slap it or shake it or bump it, and there’s an awkward moment where I try to do all of those things at once, and finally the guy just grabs my hand, makes it into a fist, and does the fist bump for me, he and my brother laughing at me. Humiliating.

  They talk a bit longer, do more bumps and high-fives, and then the punk walks away, patting me on the head as he passes. His rings hurt my skull.
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  As I watch him go the band finishes, and suddenly I can hear again. I turn back to Josh.

  “Who was that guy?”

  “Him? That’s just Patrick.”

  I watch Patrick vanishing into the crowd, pausing to greet someone else.

  “He looks like that guy you told me about, the one you got in the fight with. The one who bit your ear off.”

  “He is.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Not a bad dude, really.”

  He’s distracted again, looking around at the crowd, looking toward the bar, like it’s no big deal that he just ran into the guy who bit off half of his ear and whose jaw he shattered.

  “You’re friends now?”

  “Yup.”

  I shake my head, adding another item to the Mystery List. Now that the band has stopped, the house lights have come up and I can see the rest of the crowd. Everyone looks like college students or older, and they all look like they could be drunk or high or I don’t know what, and the atmosphere feels charged and unstable, like an orgy or a riot could break out at any second. I have to pee, but I’m afraid to go to the bathroom, envisioning someone grabbing me and making me smoke pot or something.

  “Josh, can we go now?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “So go pee.”

  I twist around, looking for the bathroom, then spot it. Someone pulls the door open, and I briefly get a clear view inside, where a guy is standing at a urinal, peeing. I decide holding it is a better choice.

  I look at Josh again. He’s checking his watch.

  “Why are we here?” I ask.

  “Part of the Quest. So you know what it’s like. So you know how to behave in a place like this.”

  Right. Of course. Just the skill I need for my bar mitzvah.

  Josh is examining me.

  “What?”

  “Clothes,” he says, like he’s added something to a list.

  “What? What about them?”

  He’s not looking at me or listening—back to scanning the crowd.

  “Is this a dive bar?”

  He chuckles. “A dive bar? Clearly you’ve never been to a real dive bar.”

  “Um, I’ve never been to any bar. I’m thirteen.”

  “Stop looking around like everyone is going to murder you. These are not meth dealers. They’re all normal people. They go to school or have jobs.”

  “Like the guy who bit your ear off.”

  “Hmm.” He thinks about it for a moment. “No, I think he’s a meth dealer.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Look, relax. Act like you belong here. You act confident, like everything is cool, like you’re supposed to be here, and no one will bother you. Remember that. That’s a good general rule.”

  You hear that, everyone? When you’re thirteen and you’re in a bar and it’s near midnight and there’s drug dealers with Mohawks who bite people’s ears off, just act like you’re supposed to be there, and everything will be fine.

  “Josh, I’m not sure that—” I begin, but he’s walking off abruptly, heading back toward the bar. I can see him as he steps up to it and addresses the bartender.

  A she. An attractive she, wearing a tight tank top, her dark hair drawn back in a ponytail. I didn’t notice her before, and realize she must have just started her shift. And then I realize that she’s why we’re really here.

  They’re talking. They know each other. They more than know each other. He’s holding her hand across the bar, and she’s laughing, shaking her head. Even from where I am I can see her say no, and then no a few more times, still laughing, and then no again, growing more serious. Josh says something. I can see her saying Josh . . .

  She breaks off and takes someone’s drink order. She’s still talking with Josh as she pours a drink and gets someone a beer, shaking her head and frowning as Josh says something back to her. Another guy tries to get her attention, and Josh holds out his hand to him without looking at him, gesturing for him to wait. The guy says something back to Josh, and now Josh turns, and I’m getting nervous again. Josh says something. The other guy takes a step back, holding up his hands, mollifying Josh. Josh is still trying to talk to the bartender. She’s trying not to talk to him. The guy Josh threatened is rolling his eyes, sharing a laugh with his friends, like, Can you believe this guy? I don’t blame him.

  Josh, I can see the bartender say, pointing at him, and then she launches into what looks to be a lecture, cutting him off with an open hand or a finger in the air each time he tries to interrupt her. Then she finishes and turns from him to a customer, all smiles again, and it’s like she’s slammed a door in Josh’s face. The conversation is over.

  Josh spins away from the bar and stalks toward the exit and disappears through the doors. It takes me a second to realize that he’s leaving for real and he’s leaving me behind. I start toward the door, and suddenly the room seems crowded again, people blocking my path and slowing me down, and I have to fight my way through. I need to catch up to Josh, and I need to pee, and it’s like a nightmare where your feet are sinking into the ground and you can’t move forward. I detour around a fat guy and squeeze through a tight circle of girls, mumbling apologies as I go. I hear someone say, “Check that kid out,” and I try to speed up, only to run into a herd of guys heading from the bar, one of them slopping beer on me from a pint glass when I bump into him.

  “Hey, watch it!” he says, and I squeak some more sorries as I backpedal away and bump into someone else. Rough hands grab my shoulders and spin me around, and Patrick the Meth-Dealing Punk’s face looms in front of my own.

  “What’s up, li’l dude!” he bellows, his acrid breath stinking of liquor and what I guess to be a cheeseburger and fries that are decomposing in his stomach. “Your bro’s, like, friggin’ awesome, dude! He’s the friggin’ shit! He’s, like—”

  “I gotta go!” I say, and I mean it in more ways than one. I go around him and get another jarring pat on the head, his rings making a knocking sound on my skull.

  I swim upstream through the hordes of people coming in the front door and finally make it outside, gulping for air.

  Josh is gone. For a moment I can’t remember if we came from the left or the right, and I’m lost and unprotected and have to pee so bad I almost want to wet my pants.

  I pick a direction, realize it’s the wrong one, and double back. I make it around the corner and spot the car with relief. Josh is sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting.

  I open the passenger door and lean in.

  “I have to pee,” I say, hopping from foot to foot.

  He doesn’t respond, just gestures roughly toward the wall behind me.

  Cursing, I find the spot farthest away from the pool of illumination cast by the street lamp. I’m picturing being caught in the sudden blinding light from a police cruiser, like on Cops, and it takes me forever to start peeing and then forever to stop. A car goes by and honks. I cut off the flow and zip up and racewalk back to the car, my face flushed.

  Josh puts the car in gear before I’ve even closed the door and accelerates away from the curb, still without saying a word.

  “You were going to leave me in the club,” I say angrily as we pull onto the highway. He doesn’t respond. I sit back in my seat and cross my arms, mad.

  We drive in silence until we get home. When we pull into the garage I follow him wordlessly to the door to go inside.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he says.

  “Asshole,” I mutter, repeating it as I trudge out of the garage, walk around the side of the house, into the backyard, and climb into my tent.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TUESDAY, 9:03 A.M., TWENTY-THREE MINUTES LATE TO HOMEROOM

  “I’m gonna get expelled. I’m going to get expelled. I’m going to get—”

  “Isaac, would you shut up, already? You’re not going to get expelled.”

  “I have perfect attendance!”


  “Had.”

  “I was going to get a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Jerry’s!”

  “Ice cream is bad for you.”

  “Where are you driving us? What are we doing?”

  “You’ll see. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  Oh, God.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE ARRIVAL OF LESLEY MCDOUGAL

  MERIT BADGE: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

  I had figured that after our late night I’d be getting a reprieve from my early-morning workout session. I was wrong. Josh dragged me from the tent at six A.M. for our run and calisthenics and wrestling, mostly him tossing me around while I lay there like a rag doll. This led to threats of more pushups unless I put forth some real effort. More effort was forthput.

  Standard hostage-situation conversation with parents, Josh looking on to make sure I stuck to the script. More urging from my mom to contact Eric Weinberg deflected. Comments from her that I sounded tired again.

  At breakfast Josh was texting with someone on his phone, and then he made a call.

  “You can’t do it tonight?” he said to whomever he was talking to. “What about the weekend? Seriously? All right, we’ll do it today.”

  As Lisa and I were walking out the door, Josh told me to wait. I waited.

  “I’ll drive you to school,” he said.

  Um . . . okay.

  Then we got in the car and he went the exact opposite direction, and I commenced freaking out.

  We get on the highway, Josh responding to my panicked where are we goings with an equal number of you’ll sees. Wherever it is, it’s taking me out of Edina and out of school and out of the running for fifty dollars’ worth of ice cream.

  We’re off the highway now, on Lake Street, heading toward Uptown, another no-go area for me: boutiques and bars and used bookstores and punky kids, and what I’m pretty sure are gay men who have shaved heads and handlebar mustaches. As I peer fearfully out of the window Josh pulls the car up and parks at the curb.

  “Out,” commands Josh.