Fast Money

Fast Money
By G Money

         Adam leaned against the wall outside the comic book store, smoking a cigarette and keeping an eye out for anyone he would know. Mrs. Strausborg, who lived next door to their cramped two bedroom home, had a habit of popping up whenever he skipped school, and proceeded to give him, as well as his mother an earful. His mother would give him a stern scolding so the old woman would leave, a satisfied expression on her face. His mother would say how she didn’t need to tell him the value of an education, that it was the best tool she could give him to make something useful of his life. Each time he could sense weariness in her voice, saw her eyes look more dim and drained. The lectures and scolding had become routine, and he couldn’t seem to prevent himself from skipping at least twice a week. The teachers didn’t seem to notice or care. There were 999 other kids in his grammar school to be concerned about.

         He would nod respectfully after the scolding and proceed up the stairs to his room to do his homework. And he would go to school for the next couple weeks, watching the old woman out of the corner of his eye as he got on the city bus. He wondered if she pitied him and his mother, or respected them for carrying on in the face of tragedy and adversity. His father had died proud but left them with little. Adam had an uncle to whom his father had willed his prized diamond studded gun. His uncle, Stevie Boy was a musician on the Upper East Side, offered no financial assistance. Musicians, as Adam understood it, made good money. Judging from the look of the suit at the funeral, he wondered why Stevie Boy couldn’t afford a better one. Somehow, after the funeral expenses, Adam’s mother had managed to make ends meet, and he was able to get a job delivering newspapers on the weekends, though he had taken to spending part of the earnings on cigarettes and comic books. The characters lived simple lives, like Clark Kent, but also faced adversity due to their superhero powers, making him feel less alone. He would catch himself thinking during science class of concocting some experiment that would go wrong and transform him into a superhero so he and his mother would not have to worry anymore.

         The sharp clicking of high heels on concrete caused his attention to shift down the block. He held his breath as he tilted his head so he could see better from beneath his baseball cap, expecting it to be Mrs. Strausborg or his mother, Anne. A woman dressed in a business suit went into the deli two doors down from the comic book store. He let out a sigh of relief, taking comfort in the fact that it was a hot October day, and Mrs. Strausborg despised heat. He had always wanted to ask why she lived in the city if she didn’t like the heat, but thought the question rude and inappropriate.

         “Hello Adam,” a voice said from his right. He turned and looked up into the eyes of his history teacher, Mr. Christian. “Skipping class again?”

         Adam shrugged. “Nice day out.”

         Mr. Christian leaned against the wall. “It is a nice day out. You’ve enjoyed 25 of them so far this term.”

         Adam shifted uneasily on his feet, feeling uncomfortable from the steady, piercing gaze of Mr. Christian. “Oh. Want a note from my mother or something?”

         “No. I’m fairly sure your mother is aware of your habits and is doing the best she can to curb them.”

         “Yeah. She knows.” He took a drag from his cigarette.

         “Smoking is a nasty pastime.”

         “Yeah. Guess I’m too stupid to quit.”

         “You and I both know that’s not true. What’s really going on?”

         “You wouldn’t understand.” His mind ran through the snickers and stares his classmates tossed his way during class. They would write notes to each other, and leave them for him to find, and watch from a safe distance, as his face grew red. They tormented him about his raggedy shoes and uncut hair. One of the boys insulted his pride once, saying he couldn’t take care of his mother, and he had knocked the boy’s teeth out. The principal stuck him in the counselor’s office for a day. The notes had stopped then, but the snickers and stares had continued, and no one would speak to him. Some of the teachers would cross to the other side of the hall when they saw him, and pretend to engage in conversation with a co-worker, until he passed, then continue down the hall behind him. For a while he felt like he deserved it, punishment for harsh words he was never able to explain or retract.

         “Try me.” Mr. Christian stood silently, waiting for a response he knew wasn’t going to come today. He watched Adam puff away on the cigarette, a detached look on his face. Adam was a tough kid, and he wondered if that tough exterior was for show. He had read in the newspapers how Adam’s father had died, but didn’t think anything of it. There was no mention of Adam being at the scene. When Adam started skipping classes, he had started paying more attention to the mannerisms, and spoke to a friend who was a specialist about it. The specialist agreed to meet with Adam, if Adam came of his own will.

         Adam was slippery. He had mastered the art of playing hooky. Mr. Christian would see him in the halls in the morning, and then he wouldn’t be in class in the afternoon. He had meant to talk to his mother about his habits, but when they met for parent-teacher conferences, and he heard what had transpired before the death, he offered his assistance rather than confrontation.

         Smoke billowed out Adam’s nostrils as he turned his gaze across the street to the bank. Men came in and out from depositing or cashing their bimonthly paychecks. Men in their overalls, stuffing the money into their boots so it would be safe until the whistle blew for them to head to the bars. Men in three piece-suits, carrying briefcases stuffed with inconsequential documents. His eye caught a woman. She was wearing a faded purple dress, walking smoothly in high heels over the cracks in the pavement. Her long brown hair flowed out of a flowered hat the same color as her dress. He could not see her face. A familiar set of earrings dangled from her ears, blinking in the sunlight that refracted on the wedding ring she still wore. He remembered the story about the ring, how his father had saved all his money, and how crushed she felt because they stopped going out. She thought he had found someone else, until he showed up at her doorstep and proposed. She had stopped telling the story, and he would catch her every now and then, absent-mindedly staring at and touching the ring. The diamond would remind him of the gun, and he would look away in agony as hurtful memories flooded his mind.

         A big van sped into the intersection, then turned sharply and stopped in front of the bank. Five men in black suits and ski masks emerged and walked business like into the bank. People entering and leaving the bank stopped to watch the men. Store owners peered out their windows, unaccustomed to the sound of squealing tires in the middle of the day. Adam felt the butt of the cigarette burn his hand as it fell out of his mouth, the sunlight glinting off a heavy metal object with diamond studs on the handle in one of the men’s hands. His uncle glanced around, fingers nervously gripping the butt of the gun as he walked with the group into the bank.

         Stevie Boy could feel his palms sweating on the Glock 9 millimeter that wasn’t his as they entered the bank. It had been his brother Jerry’s, and left to him in the will. Jerry had been a police officer and had been shot in the line of duty. Stevie Boy had never been able to get the exact details, but knew his brother had died proud just like Pop. The Glock had hung in a case on the mantel next to a picture of Jerry in uniform. Graduation Day at the Academy. Pop had been so proud. One of his sons was following in his footsteps. Stevie Boy always thought Pop held some resentment towards him since he chose music instead of law enforcement. He never forgot the look on Pop’s face when he left home for the East Coast and the revival of the jazz and swing clubs. It was a look of disappointment mixed with understanding and respect. Stevie Boy had been a different kid, had different dreams than his father and older brother. Pop had always prided himself on respect of the individual no matter what their beliefs or background, and had held true.

         Pop had been shot in the line of duty six years ago, and Jerry had been shot three months ago. He had just been over for dinner. They had talked about baseball, and how proud he felt about willing his diamond studded Glock to Adam. Even Anne, his wife, seemed happy. Adam had abruptly left the table then. Stevie Boy could tell that stung Jerry, and offered to take it if Adam didn’t want it. Hold on to it, he had said, until Adam was ready. He had tried to calm Jerry, telling him Adam would come around, he had plenty of time to ease the boy’s fears. The phone call the following day seemed surreal.

         Stevie Boy found it difficult to concentrate on anything, and his wife was beginning to get worried. He got fired from the club he had been at for almost ten years, and had bounced around from club to club, trying to get lost in the music while bill collectors beat down their door. She had pleaded with him, they would find a way to make ends meet, but he didn’t listen. He took his brother’s prized possession, the only thing left to remember him by, down to the local pawnshop in hopes of getting some cash to silence the collectors. The broker had eyed it eagerly, ready to pay top dollar after examining it and discovering it was one of a kind. A gentleman in a black business suit had been standing over in the corner, watching the transaction and interceded before it was finalized.

         “There’s better use for that piece,” he said. “If you’re interested. Fast money and lots of it. Interested?”

         “Leave the man alone Frank,” the broker said.

         Stevie Boy hesitated, trying to think of what could produce lots of fast money. Frank noticed his hesitation and invited himself over for dinner. Stevie Boy tried to say no, but Frank had already extracted his address. Stevie Boy called his wife from the pawnshop. She was delighted to hear he had found someone who could find him work, and was more delighted that he hadn’t sold his brother’s prized possession.

         While his wife was doing the dishes in the kitchen, Charlie Parker buzzing through the stereo, Frank explained his plan. “We’ll be in and out before one cop can get into his squad car on the other side of town.”

         “The cops will be all over the place in a manner of minutes. You won’t be able to lay a hand on one dollar before they slap cuffs on you.”

         Frank laughed. “The cops are way the other side of town. It’s the only bank in a borough that doesn’t have cops sitting right outside the front door.”

         He remembered it then. There were only two guards on duty. Everyone knew everyone else. It had that small town feeling in the middle of a big borough. They had all pointed him out when he had gone in with Anne to get the will out of the lock box, and then extended courtesy and words of condolence when she introduced him.

         “See what I mean about fast money and lots of it?”

         “I can’t,” Stevie Boy said briskly. He stood up, walked to the door and opened it.

         A sly look came over Frank’s face. “Sure you can.”

Frank stood and buttoned his coat. “Think of it this way: you’ll have enough money to pay the rent and the hospital charges when the time comes, and still have enough left over to buy a larger, nicer house in a better neighborhood for your family.”

         When Frank left, Stevie Boy went into the kitchen to help his wife. He watched her sit slowly down at the table and place her hands over her belly. She asked about the after dinner conversation as he surveyed the surroundings of their dilapidated apartment. He told her he was going for an interview the following day. She smiled and said that was wonderful, and that he would need a new suit.

         His black suit swallowed the hot sun, and he could feel his skin shed water as they walked into the bank. Eyes turned in their direction and stared. Frank held up his gun, fired two shots at the ceiling and told everyone to remain calm. Stevie Boy raised the diamond studded Glock and pointed it at people as they backed away. A woman in a purple dress let out a gasp of shock. Stevie Boy looked at her and felt his stomach heave.

         Anne didn’t need a second glance to recognize the weapon or the eyes behind the mask, she had seen them many times before. He was best man at their wedding, and the three of them had hung out together long before that. In her heart she had known Jerry was the man for her, and felt a kinship with his brother when they were introduced. She shared her feelings of fear about Jerry’s profession and how late at night when the phone rang she felt her heart stop at the thought of the news that would follow. Jerry had sensed his wife’s apprehension about his job, and his brother had confirmed it during an after dinner conversation. He requested a transfer from undercover work to being a guard at the bank. She relaxed when the transfer went through, knowing that thieves always tried for the banks in the city where the reserves were much higher than the borough.

         Jerry always had a fondness for firearms, so she bought him one. It was a one of a kind diamond studded Glock 9 millimeter she found at an antique store in the city. It had never been fired, and its ownership had proven difficult to trace but Jerry cherished the weapon, making the centerpiece of his collection. They had Adam, and he used to gaze at it with curiosity when he was young. One day, Jerry was showing it to Stevie Boy, and Adam had come into the office. The reaction was one of fear, as if Jerry were going to fire it at him. Jerry didn’t understand what had caused such a sudden change. When he was putting the finishing touches on his will, he wanted to leave the weapon to Adam, believing that he would grow out of his fear.

         “I don’t want it.”

         “What? Why not? It’s my most prized possession.”

         Adam had exploded then. He screamed at the top of his lungs that he couldn’t stand to hear his father talk of an inanimate object being his “prized possession,” putting it above his living and breathing son. Jerry sat there for a long moment, stunned. Adam stormed out of the room and out of the house. Jerry finished his will, leaving the weapon to his brother who had promised to hold on to it until Adam was ready. He placed the will in a lock box the following day before he started his shift, and was dead four hours later at the hands of an escaped convict looking for fast money.

         Anne tried talking to Adam, knowing he harbored guilt for having the last words with his father exchanged in anger. He retreated into what few comic books he owned, and she watched helplessly as they accumulated. She started getting letters from teachers saying he was skipping class. She could smell the smoke in his clothes when he came in at dusk, saying he had been at the library. She had gone to parent conferences, tried explaining circumstances to his teachers, excuses for why he skipped class. All but one had simply nodded in pity and stopped writing letters.

         It was her last conference of the evening. History: her son’s favorite subject. He used to talk about the injustice of slavery and institutionalized racism that was so blatantly obvious during the 1960s. Now it was all she could do get a synopsis of his day if he was home for dinner.

         Mr. Christian sat quietly while she went through her well-rehearsed explanation half heartedly, already knowing the reply. He did not nod like the rest, but rather offered his own observations. Adam had been in his class since the spring, and he had noticed a remarkably unsettling change. He had also noticed many of his classmates picking on him and his refusal to respond only seemed to egg them on, with the exception of the fight. She hadn’t known about the fight. Adam refused to say anything except that he was defending his pride, as his father would have expected. Mr. Christian seemed to understand and offered to help.

         “I don’t know what you can do,” she said.

         “I can keep an eye on him if he continues to skip class. I also know of someone who might be able to help. He’s a specialist.” He wrote down a name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

         “Thank you,” she said as she looked at the paper, then folded it into quarters and put it in her pocket. She had an odd sensation in her chest at the thought of seeking outside assistance. The pension money was just beginning to trickle in from the department, which seemed only to make up for what her son spent on cigarettes and comic books.

         “He’s very lax about payment policies,” he said, reading her thoughts. “He’s more than willing to work something out.”

         She thanked him and left. She didn’t say anything to Adam. She wanted to speak to the specialist first and see what his thoughts were. Mr. Christian had proven to be correct, and an installment plan was worked out that would only go into effect if Adam chose to peruse the option. She insisted on paying the first installment anyway, but the bank had closed for the day so she said she would bring it the following afternoon on her lunch hour. She wondered now if she were going to make it, or meet the same fate as her husband but at the hand of his brother.

         “Everyone just move towards the center,” Stevie Boy said as he walked over towards the crowd waving his gun. They shuffled over slowly. Frank walked up to each teller as the other members fanned out over the floor, keeping track of the customers and the two guards. Stevie Boy kept his eyes on Anne as she moved with the others. He tried to maneuver himself closer to her so he could whisper to just follow instructions and everything would be okay.

         She moved with the crowd, trying to read his expression. It was clear he knew she recognized him, and she didn’t know what repercussions would follow as she tried to inch her way further from him. She counted the robbers and tried to find something distinctive about each as she inched closer into the crowd towards the door. He maneuvered his way behind her, moving customers into a tighter circle and cutting off her route to the door.

         “Anne,” he breathed into her ear. “Please. This guy means business.”

         “They always mean business,” she whispered back. “Let me sneak out.”

         “I can’t.”

         “Move damnit,” she said, glaring at him.

         “Anne.” He was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot.

         “Guess that makes you manager now doesn’t it,” Frank said to a boy who looked no older than 18. Stevie Boy felt his stomach churn, felt his face get hot and images of his brother doing his job flicker in front of his eyes.

         Adam tried to think fast, tried to think what his uncle was doing and felt his stomach heave at the thought of losing his mother. He had not told her he was sorry for skipping school, for not talking to her, for not being the son he was supposed to be. Mr. Christian disappeared into the comic bookstore and told the desk clerk to call 911. A thought popped into Adam’s head and he sprinted the four blocks to his house.

         His lungs were burning as he unlocked the back door and went into the house. He stopped at the threshold of his father’s office, his chest heaving and tightening. The glass case that had held the Glock was gone from its spot, leaving behind a light square area against the darker stained wood walls. Papers on his desk lay undisturbed. Neither he nor his mother had ventured into this room since the funeral. Memories assaulted his brain as he moved towards the desk his father had sat behind when he screamed at his father about the Glock he didn’t want willed to him.

         It was the only fight they had ever had. Adam had understood since he could walk that guns were important to his father’s job. His father took him to the shooting range and taught him about safety, how to aim, how to shoot and how to clean a weapon. Adam had demonstrated an uncanny ability at an early age. He didn’t understand what they could do until he took the diamond studded Glock out of its case one day while his father was at work and his mother had gone to the store. He checked the clip as he had been taught, left a note for his mother, got on his bike and rode to the park. He liked the feel of the weapon in his hand, and the way the light played over the diamonds. It reminded him of his mother’s wedding ring and the happiness of his family. He looked up into a tree at a squirrel cleaning itself, pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. His ears rang as he watched the squirrel fall to the ground. He dropped the gun and covered his ears in an effort to make the ringing stop. He dug around in the trash until he found a paper bag to carry the gun in so he wouldn’t have to touch it, and hurried home. He placed it back in its case, then curled up under the safety of his covers until his mother came home. He wanted to tell her what happened but instead said he had seen a gangster movie that reminded him of how grandfather had died. He would jump whenever his father brought the gun out, and found it difficult to understand how he could love something that killed.

         He pushed through the memories, sat down in the chair and opened the center drawer. Pens and pencils were lined neatly. The set of keys were sitting off to the left of the tray. He picked them up and went over to the cabinet in the right hand corner. Visions of his superheroes raced through his head as he unlocked the cabinet and stared at the contents. He didn’t posses the speed of light, X-RAY vision, eyes that shot lasers, inhumanly possible strength or the ability to control the elements.

         “I’m a cop’s son,” he said aloud. “I possess...” he surveyed the contents. “Firearms.” The word didn’t have a superheroish ring to it, but it sounded powerful and threatening. He grabbed a 9-millimeter handgun, shells and hurried out the door. He raced through the streets back to the comic book shop, pedestrians screaming and jumping out of the way as he screwed on the silencer. He preferred the idea of shooting from a hidden position away from the action, and disappearing like all great superheroes when the good deeds are done.

         “Adam,” Mr. Christian said as he yanked him into the comic book shop. “The cops are on their way. What the heck…what…” He couldn’t find the right words as he stared at the weapon, and watched in awe as Adam locked and loaded.

         “My mother’s in there.”

         “What?”

“I can go through the back. Employee entrance. Used to go with my dad on Saturdays during his shift.”

         “Adam, that’s crazy. You can’t go in there armed. They’ll shoot you.”

         “No. They won’t even know I’m there until it’s too late.”

         “There are five of them. One of them will see you.”

         Adam shook his head. “They won’t notice. They’ll be too busy keeping the hostages in order.”

         “And he can always hide behind the counter,” the desk clerk said.

         Mr. Christian shot him a dirty look. Adam didn’t need encouragement; he needed to be talked out of it. He could be seriously injured if not killed. Mr. Christian felt a pang of guilt rise in his gut at the thought of being responsible for another death.

         “My mother is in there,” Adam said again.

         Mr. Christian fought with himself. It was completely irresponsible. Far too many things could go wrong. At the same time, he understood the desire to rectify past actions, and he knew if he were given the chance to set things right, he wouldn’t back down.

         “What’s the best way,” Mr. Christian asked.

         “Here,” the store clerk said as he pulled out another 9mm from under the counter. “Take it. Just be sure to bring it back.”

         “Thanks,” Mr. Christian said as he grabbed it and checked the clip.

         “Take the safety off before we get to the door,” Adam said. He turned his baseball cap around so the brim was at the back. “Then all you gotta do is squeeze.” He smiled to himself as he remembered his dad telling him the same thing on his first day at the shooting range.

         Mr. Christian followed Adam as they took a wide route to the building. It occurred to him that the employee entrance was probably locked and there would be no way of getting inside. He was caught between relief and disappointment when he saw a keypad near the door. Adam went up to it, touched four numbers and opened the door. They crouched just inside the door.

         “Okay. Aim for the shoulder, chest or kneecaps. Don’t hit my mother. She’s wearing a faded purple dress. My uncle is the one carrying the diamond studded Glock.”

         Before Mr. Christian could respond, Adam crawled away, peeked around the corner and then disappeared. He took a deep breath and followed, peeking around the corner the way Adam had done. He could hear whimpering, saw a pool of maroon liquid and the body of the manager. Vomit caught in his throat. He swallowed it and crawled in the opposite direction of Adam. He peered around the corner of the counter, and saw the hostages huddled in the center. Three men in black suits and ski masks stood around them. None of them were carrying a diamond-studded Glock. He shifted out of view and tried to calm his breathing. He heard voices coming from his right, beyond the body.

         “Bag it all Stevie Boy. Charlie here doesn’t mind.” Frank poked the kid with the tip of his gun as Stevie Boy hurriedly bagged the money. He tried to estimate what his sister-in-law would have and kept tossing bills into a different bag, glancing over his shoulder to see if Frank had noticed. He thought about shooting Frank, grabbing Anne and making a run for it, but it never occurred to him to load his weapon. His wife had been pep-talking him all morning. He wasn’t able to swipe the bullets from the desk drawer on his way out as he had planned.

         There was a cry of pain from the lobby. Frank motioned for Stevie Boy to grab the money and go as he hit the kid in the head with the butt of the gun. Stevie Boy sidestepped the manager’s body, saying a silent prayer and apology; then went into the lobby. One man was on the floor, writhing in pain and clutching his left kneecap. Another stood over him while the third looked wildly about.

         “What the fuck is going on,” Frank asked as he stepped out of the vault. “Why did you shoot yourself in the fucking kneecap?”

         “The shot came from somewhere in the building but I don’t know where.”

         Frank quickly moved back towards the vault, his eyes scanning the counter. The third guy cried out in pain and gripped his shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers. Frank maneuvered himself so that he could look behind the counter without exposing his limbs, and motioned for the others to remain silent.

         Adam bunched himself underneath one of the stations, trying to hear Frank’s footsteps. He couldn’t see Mr. Christian, and wondered if he had passed out when he saw the dead body. He could hear the whimpering of some of the hostages, and imagined the two wounded robbers biting their lips in an effort to keep quiet. He risked a glance around the edge and saw Frank peer around the corner of the vault. His bit his lips, wishing for a cigarette to calm his nerves.

         The sound of gunfire exploded in his ears. He felt hands tug at him, his head ringing from the noise. His eyes opened and stared at Mr. Christian who was pulling him out of his hiding place and firing over the counter. Adam crawled out, looked where Frank laid, blood soaking his shirt from the chest out. He grabbed the 9mm and peeked above the counter.

         The tall man whom Adam had hit in the kneecap was dragging himself to one side behind a plant while the muscular one fired back with his one good arm. The other dropped to the ground and opened fire. Pieces of marble spewed everywhere as bullets ricocheted all around. Adam ducked, then looked above the counter again, trying to find his mother. Hostages were screaming and racing out the door as bullets whizzed by. He caught a glimpse of his mother being dragged by his uncle. He ducked back behind the counter and crawled to the other side.

         “He’s taking her,” he yelled at Mr. Christian as he made a dash for the door. His heart felt like it was going to explode through his chest. He heard bullets fly by his head, felt a hot stab of pain as one nicked his scalp.

         The light outside was blinding. He dropped the weapon and held his hands to his face to shield his eyes from the glare. An arsenal of cop cars lined the street with officers and their weapons aimed at the door. Adam quickly moved to one side,

         “Damnit Adam,” a uniformed officer said as he grabbed Adam by the arm and led him behind the line of cars. “Your father would’ve risen from his grave and strangled me.”

         “Eric, my mother. He took her. Where is she?”

         “Calm down Adam. Take a deep breath. Who took her?”

         “My uncle.”

         “Stevie Boy?”

         “He’s got the diamond-studded Glock. He took her out in the crowd. And Mr. Christian is still inside.”

         “Okay. Okay. Calm down. Hold on.” Eric radioed to his superiors about the armed civilian still inside as SWAT moved in. “Where did you see Stevie Boy and your mother go?”

         “We’re right here,” Stevie Boy said from around the corner. Adam jumped to his feet and hurled himself at Stevie Boy.

         “You son of a bitch!” he screamed as he threw a fist that landed above the eye. Stevie Boy raised his arms in defense.

         “Adam. Stop!” his mother said as she grabbed his other arm in swing and held it.

         “He nearly killed you! And he stole the money!”

         “No I didn’t,” Stevie Boy protested. “It’s all back in the vault. Every last cent. I didn’t even fire the gun,” Stevie Boy said as he handed it to Eric.

         “Alright. Everyone just calm down and we’ll sort this thing out,” the office said.

         “You will return that, please,” Anne said.

         Eric fingered the Glock. “Yes. At the end.”

         They emerged from the ally as the robbers were being taken into custody. Eric held a brief conversation with one of his superiors; then led them over to the comic book shop where another officer would take their statements. Stevie Boy was taken to one side so he could give more details about the attempted robbery. Mr. Christian was sitting on the stoop, holding gauze over his arm. Adam saw the store clerk stick the gun in the back of his pants as they approached.

         “Thank you Mr. Christian,” Eric said as they shook hands.

         “It’s Adam you should thank,” Mr. Christian said.

         Adam smiled in spite of himself as Eric patted him on the back. His mother bent down and wrapped her arms around him. He squeezed back in response, and whispered his apology in her ear.

         Lights flashed. Microphones were shoved in his face as a barrage of questions erupted from the ensuing media posse. His face was plastered over the front page of every newspaper the next morning. He walked into school with the sound of thunderous applause following him to his locker. Students and teachers patted him on the back. Adam felt his chest swell with pride, picturing his father standing at the end of the hall, ready to embrace him as his son.

         Mr. Christian stood at the end of the hall, next to his classroom, applauding with the rest of the school. He smiled at Adam as the bell for first period rang. Adam looked up, smiled back.