T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

Antonio-Anthony-is my dad’s name.

Was he named after a rat?

Is that what he was trying to tell me-that he had become one?

So far, it’s a question that even the notebook can’t answer. What endless hours of reading has made clear, however, is that the Outfit has no code of honor, no ethnic allegiance, and no loyalty. There is only the accumulation of power and its twin purposes of making money and destroying people who try to take that money away. I’m sure that’s why Great-Grandpa Nunzio began writing things down-he did it to protect himself, by recording secrets about and evidence against other Outfit members in case he ever needed leverage.

But then he went further.

In great detail, he documented the locations of secret escape routes all over Chicago, while also providing the confidential contact numbers for nameless, dangerous allies and the passwords needed to access them, putting a shadow army of homicidal thugs at his fingertips. It was a practice carried on by Grandpa Enzo and my dad; they each updated those invaluable Outfit secrets to their respective generations. And then there’s the last chapter, “ Volta ,” written in some form of incomprehensible Italian, and the mystery key taped to the inside back cover-I’m sure the power contained in those words and that jagged hunk of brass is considerable. Why else would they be disguised and unexplained? It was that very realization-the cumulative power of its pages-that turned on a lightbulb for me. The notebook isn’t a family history, and it isn’t an archive of criminal evidence.

It’s an instruction manual for operating the Outfit, from its secretive, singular boss at the very top of the organization, down to its soldiers on the street.

There is a kind of danger on those pages that can strike and kill quickly, quietly, and efficiently.

It’s a leather-bound nuclear weapon, and I won’t hesitate to use it.

After what seemed like an eternity of running and fighting for my life, making it back to school was a relief, but also surreal, as if I’d stepped into the calm, orderly existence of that previous Sara Jane. I was standing outside of homeroom, my face knit with hatred as I thought about how I planned to deploy the notebook’s power on that masked, lurching freak, when someone said hi.

“Hey,” I growled without looking up.

That was how I said hello to Max when I finally saw him.

After a whirlwind of fleeing, punching, and reading, I’d cocooned into something slightly less than human-a defensive, monosyllabic armadillo girl, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. But when I looked up at Max’s grin and warm brown eyes, my heart began to beat again. I was so happy to see him that it was almost impossible to stifle a hug. He was too, but not romantic happy; his expression was mainly friendly, and it hurt as much as getting punched by Ski Mask Guy.

“Jeez,” he said, inspecting my face. “You got hit hard, huh? Is that why you were out for so long?”

I had already told Max that I was a boxer. He knew I sparred regularly, and I went with it. I told him about a tough opponent I faced at Windy City, how the freak dodged and weaved, but that I intended to take him down in the future.

“A rematch, huh?” he said.

“Definitely,” I said. “It’s inevitable.”

One of the best things about Fep Prep is that it allows my mind to take a much-needed rest from my troubles, and being with Max only made it better. We ate lunch together and talked about nothing in particular-his week, what I missed at school, what we each had planned for summer break. It felt so good, like my brain was purging itself of urgency and fear, and I said, “Hey, what about Ten Seconds to Zero ? Did you see it?”

Max’s face changed. It went from relaxed to concerned, and he said, “Movies. . that reminds me. Have you talked to Doug?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t seen him yet. Why, what happened?”

“Something bad,” Max said solemnly. “Something very bad.”

He explained how Doug had brought his precious About Face screenplay to a discussion in social sciences class, since, in Doug’s words, the film “offers a succinct analysis of nonviolence that is still applicable to our geopolitical world,” or something. He was crossing campus when Bully the Kid spotted him, and at first it seemed like the same old thing, with Billy calling him idiotic names while Doug went into emotional lockdown and Billy’s entourage of morons stood around yukking it up. But this time was different. This time, for whatever reason-maybe it was confidence from having just discussed About Face or maybe he’d finally had enough-Doug had the nerve to say something. When there was a lull in the taunting, he cleared his throat and said, “Your eyes are really close together.”

Billy paused, scrunched up his monkey forehead, and said, “Huh?”

“Close-set eyes,” Doug said. “They’re a genetic indicator of mental disabilities.”

Someone snickered and Billy’s neck turned red. He moved closer to Doug and said, “Mental dis- Wait, are you calling me a retard?”

“From a cognitive function standpoint, ‘retard’ is an unacceptable term,” Doug said. “But using it as slang certainly applies.”

Billy’s eyes got smaller as he said, “Is that a yes?”

Doug said, “Possibly.”

Billy smiled in a slow, toothy curl and said, “It’s on!” and shoved Doug to the ground. Doug rolled like a human burrito and struggled to his feet. Billy pushed him again, and the screenplay skittered across the grass. “I won’t fight back!” Doug huffed. “Push me all you want! I won’t fight!” But Billy wasn’t listening. Instead he was holding the screenplay, staring at the title page.

“ About Face ,” he said, with that same evil lip curl. “A. . butt. . face. A butt-face. Hey, is this your life story?”

“Give it back,” Doug said, lunging at it, with Billy acting like a toreador, stepping aside and shoving the fat, clumsy bull to his hands and knees.

“A butt. .,” Billy said, putting his foot on Doug’s big rear end. “Face!” he squealed, pushing Doug flat to the ground like a puffy starfish. Billy sat on him and turned to the first page. “Chapter one. . I am born!” he said, mock reading. “The doctor slaps my face, thinking it’s my ass!” While the pinheads laughed, Billy ceremoniously ripped off the first page and threw it over his shoulder.

“Don’t!” Doug said, struggling to get up. “Please!”

“Chapter two,” Billy said. “Mom tells me I have shit for brains and I say, well duh! What do you expect? I have a butt for a head!” He dug a handful of pages out of the screenplay and threw them into the air.

“No!” Doug screamed, writhing helplessly beneath Billy’s bulked-up body. And then there was more laughter, more pages torn out and thrown away, and by the time Billy got to chapter ten, the screenplay had scattered like dry leaves in the Chicago wind. No one could have caught the pages and no one tried, because only Doug loved them. When Billy was done, Doug was done too, unable to hold back tears. It was what Billy had been working and waiting for all year. When Doug began to sob, Billy leaped to his feet, threw his arms in the air, and exploded into a victorious hyena laugh. Doug was an inert, weeping pile, his eyes squeezed tight, and was still lying there when the last gaper finally drifted away.

“I didn’t hear about it until the next day,” Max said. “I walked into the theater room and there’s Doug, working on his laptop like his fingers are on fire. I tried to talk to him about what had happened but he wouldn’t even look at me. He just kept saying it was urgent that he finish the screenplay.”