Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

He finished the night with the fortuitous discovery of an old, forgotten graveyard next to a neglected dirt road. Pressing his shoulder against the edge of a crypt he found enough room to curl up inside with the dust of ancient inhabitants. He drifted off to sleep just as the sun rose on a clean, empty house with a broken window, halfway up the hill.

“THANKS AGAIN FOR THE RIDE,” said Davey.

“No problem Davey,” said Coach Peterson. “You run up to the building there. I told your mom I would see you from door to door.”

“No problem, Coach P.,” said Davey.

He smiled as he climbed out of the passenger seat of the coach’s car. The coach’s own son sat in the back seat and made no effort to address Davey’s departure. Davey returned the favor. As soon as he turned towards the Center, Davey frowned. The concrete two-story building looked cold and musty, like a sewer pipe. Mindful of the coach’s time he jogged towards the door, with the bag of his baseball clothes under his arm.

A few yards from the door he turned to wave goodbye to the coach, but his instructor was already pulling away from the curb, and saying something between the seats to his young son.

Davey’s frown returned, full strength. All the kids his age knew to stay away from the Career Center, it was the domain of older kids. Kids that hung around its treeless campus were more like Paul’s brother Kris, but meaner. The credible stories included lunch thrown on the roof, and shoes stolen and tossed over the power lines.

He looked up at the big metal door and considered his options before grabbing the handle. Since the coach had left, he supposed he could sneak away and return when it was time for his mom to pick him up. He didn’t trust his mom’s timing though—should could easily decide to pick him up early and ruin his plan.

An image of Paul popped into his head. In his imagination, Paul would likely be sitting at home, killing time playing video games and eating cookies.

“Makes a better door than a window,” a voice spoke from behind Davey.

He turned to see the kind eyes of a woman who looked somewhat like his grandmother. Davey smiled back at her.

“I was just…” he began.

“Never mind,” she prodded, “just open the door for a lady. You know that much, don’t you?”

A cold edge wore through the edges of her command. Davey reacted instantly. After holding the door open for her, he felt helpless; he had to follow her in. Before continuing down the hall, she pointed Davey to a table at the far end of the air-conditioned lobby.

“First day?” asked the girl at the table.

“Yes,” said Davey.

“Name?”

With her questions answered, Davey was given a slip of paper and pointed down the hall where he would take a left, and find his room on the right.

Worse than school, he thought as he listened to his shoes squeak on the polished-tile.

He found his room and slung his bag over his shoulder so he could turn the big knob with both hands. On the other side of the door, the long room was nearly empty. A few feet away a woman sat with her feet atop a desk and a book propped open on her thighs.

“Name?” she asked.

Instead of replying, Davey strode forward and handed her the paper from the lobby-girl.

“You’re not supposed to bring your bag in here,” she said. “Didn’t you get a locker?”

“Locker?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said slowly, “get a locker from Melissa.”

“Okay,” said Davey, reaching over and scratching his arm.

“Just put your bag there for today,” she pointed to the corner near the door.

“It’s just my baseball clothes,” he said.

She continued to hold her arm out, aimed at the corner, until he dropped his bag there and returned.

“Everyone’s out in the courtyard until one,” she said. “Then Mr. Nguyen comes back for afternoon stuff.”

Davey stood nervously, awaiting clearer instructions, but the reclining woman had already returned to her book.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” she asked.

“No,” said Davey.

“Then you can go to the courtyard.” She nodded towards the back of the room.

Davey finally saw what she meant—near the far corner of the long room, a set of double-doors blended into the windowed wall. He crossed the big, empty room and pushed the bar to let himself out. Compared to the air-conditioning of the building, the heat was instantly oppressive. Davey squinted as he descended the few stairs to the dry, dirt yard.

Surrounded by the two-story Center, the courtyard felt like a mockery of outdoors. Davey had spent his morning doing drills in catcher’s camp—an activity that he had previously considered to be the antithesis of play activity—but compared to this place, it had been a lush paradise. Davey shaded his eyes with a hand just in time to spot a kickball hurtling towards his face.

He ducked, reacting without thinking. The ball grazed the top of his hair, and smacked hard into the glass that made the top half of the door.

The woman from the desk appeared at the door almost instantly. She rapped her knuckles on the pane several times and then pointed while glaring. Davey followed her finger and saw an older boy with long blond hair sitting on the back of a bench. The blond boy ignored the woman and stared at Davey.

Davey turned left and headed toward the other end of the courtyard, where some younger kids played in the shadow of the building. He shuffled towards them trying to see if he recognized any of their faces before he committed to joining their number. Nobody seemed familiar, and the biggest boy looked to be a full year younger than Davey. He sat near the outskirts of their group and listened to two boys playing with small action figures.

From his new vantage point, Davey could survey the entire population of the courtyard without meeting the direct gaze of the blond boy. What he found disheartened him further. The small group of younger kids to Davey’s left were closest to Davey’s age. Everyone else was at least a couple of years older, and to Davey’s eyes they looked like trouble. In groups of two and three they had formed little cliques and circles. Aside from the two who appeared to be punching the ground, most of the older kids simply talked to each other, sometimes drawing with their fingers in the dirt, or tossing pebbles.

“I’m Evan,” a plump kid landed in the dirt next to Davey.

“Hey,” said Davey, eyeing the boy. Davey guessed that Evan had just gotten out of first grade.

“What do you do?” asked Evan.

“What do you mean?” asked Davey.

“Do you go to school?”

“Not now ,” said Davey. “It’s summer.”

“I go to school in summer,” said Evan, sneering a little. “Most kids do.”

“I don’t,” said Davey. “I have camp in the mornings.”

“Oh yeah,” said Evan. “Me too. These kids all go to school,” he drew a circle in the air around the cluster of younger kids next them.

“What about those guys over there?” Davey asked, pointing with his chin to the older bunch.

“You shouldn’t mess with those guys. They’ll make you do bad stuff,” said Evan.

“Okay,” said Davey.

The door to the classroom squeaked open and a small asian man stood in the doorway. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Back inside.”

Davey rose slowly and followed the other kids towards the doors. He found himself near the back of the pack of younger kids; lined up with the older, slower group.

Mr. Nguyen pointed at Davey as he walked through the door. “You’re new,” he said to Davey, pointing him to the side.

Back in the classroom, the kids were divided roughly by age and set up with different activities. The youngest were assigned finger paints, and the oldest left with the desk woman to go to a different room.