Chapter Nine

Raymond was tempted to call Susan on Sunday, but decided not to push things. He didn't see her until Gruber's class on Monday, when she came in her usual thirty seconds late. Smirking at Gruber's standard scolding, Susan flopped into her seat, turned and waved at Raymond, then turned back.

He flipped his bangs and smiled.

After class, Raymond and Susan walked to the cafeteria together. She wore a short denim skirt, not short enough to be a mini but short enough to be interesting, and fishnet stockings. Just in case, they steered clear of Building Three, avoiding the Tunnel of Hell. The cafeteria buzzed with the usual noise. Raymond and Susan separated and went to the boys' and girls' lines respectively, then rejoined on opposite sides of the surfer table. Susan had a test the next period so she opened her book and began to study. After a minute, Ed fell in next to Raymond and flashed him a knowing look. The rest of the surfer crowd joined them. "Shakas" all around.

Raymond kept a casual eye on the Bloods lined up along the stage end of the cafeteria. He watched how the smaller kids went all the way around the cafeteria to throw away their trays, just to avoid them. Occasionally one of the Bloods would go up to one of the kids as he came with his tray, asking him for the milk or the cookie that he'd left. Raymond observed the intricacies of this interesting food chain, watching the Bloods feed off the littler ones.

One of the surfers was telling the rest of the group about a friend of his who had just been offered sponsorship by a local surf shop. Somebody else was listening to a Walkman, eating his lunch blankly. Susan was in the world of her book, stirring her food idly, turning a page every minute or so.

Raymond wasn't listening either. He attacked the mound of rice on his tray, alternately watching Susan and the Bloods, finishing his corn and Jell-o. He glanced at the Bloods just in time to see one of them approach a seventh-grader, a little Oriental kid with glasses. The Blood held his hand out for something, but the kid shook his head. Raymond wondered what the kid wouldn't give up. Was it money? When his demand was refused again, the Blood snatched the glasses off the kid's face and held them up, at arm's length. The Oriental kid was almost on the verge of tears by then, jumping up at the glasses and pleading at the same time. The Bloods along the stage laughed in unison, screaming foul-sounding remarks in Samoan. Raymond almost expected them to applaud.

Finally, the Blood handed the glasses back and Raymond was about to breathe a sigh of relief for the younger boy when the Blood thrust his leg down and yanked the kid's feet out from under him. The kid landed on his tray—leftover corn, pieces of soy patty and rice scattering around him. His crying was as pitiful as the Bloods' laughter was horrific. From somewhere in the crowd an older girl appeared and escorted the kid from the lunchroom.

The spork can passed around.

Raymond waited a moment, watching, incredulous. "Didn't anyone see that?"

"What?" Susan asked, glancing up from her book.

"He'll live," somebody said.

"Who gives a crap?" another said.

"What is it with this school? You blow off the terrorism just because it's not happening to you."

Ed raised an eyebrow. "They don't bother us, we don't bother them. The status quo's not bad when you consider the alternatives."

"What are the alternatives?"

Susan closed her book. "Giving a shit," she said brightly.

"Well, why doesn't anybody?"

"You want to try and put them in their place?" the spork surfer interjected. "Seems they've already put you in yours."

A wave of heads turned down the table, looking at Raymond and then at the surfer with the sporks, waiting to see what the response would be.

Raymond refused to take him up on his challenge. "Have they ever killed anyone?"

A girl down on the other side of the table spoke up. "Not yet. They put Aaron Rickman in the hospital when he asked one of their girlfriends to go out with him to a movie or something. He was new."

"It was at the bus stop," Ed explained, staring at his uneaten soy patty. "They got him down and one of them just kept kicking his head. Over and over again."

"Beautiful," someone muttered.

"Real beautiful," Ed said. "His ear was so majorly mutilated, they had to do reconstructive surgery."

The girl spoke again. "Please, guys. Some of us are trying to eat here." Somebody made a slurping noise with his Jell-o and half of the crowd laughed. Raymond grabbed his bag and left, not looking behind him.

* * *

Ms. Chandler had her lunch set out in front of her: a Thermos of tea and a sandwich. The mole below her mouth bobbed as she chewed. Between bites, she talked to a couple of fat local girls who were apparently just loitering.

"Yes?" she said, recognizing Raymond.

"Could I talk to you?" he asked as the first bell rang.

Ms. Chandler checked her watch. "You'll miss fourth. Something bothering you?"

Raymond glanced at one girl, then the other, and Ms. Chandler shooed the girls out. "Go to class!" she called after them, before closing the door. She sat down at her desk and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" she prompted.

Raymond took a breath to stall. "Remember when I was here to register, we talked about the Local Bloods?"

Ms. Chandler sighed. "Would you like to press charges?"

"Huh?"

"Aren't you here about the incident at the dance?"

Raymond crossed his legs. "You know about that?"

"Is there anyone who doesn't? We know who it was and all. Do you want Ms. Greer to call the police so you can make a formal statement?"

He was tempted, and at the same time amused. Sure, he thought, call them in, press charges, then they corner you in a dark alley and beat the living crap out of you. He could just see Officer Stope rooting from outside the ring—don't hit back. Let them kill you.

"No," he said. "I'm just here about something I saw in the cafeteria."

"What was that?"

Suddenly he felt like what he'd come to say had little relevance. "One of the Bloods tripped a little kid and made him cry."

She nodded. "The Nakamura boy. Poor guy—they'll be calling him crybaby until he graduates."

"But it just happened. How did you—?"

"The nurse's office is right across the hall. Believe me, I am aware of these things."

Raymond kicked her desk's modesty panel with his sneaker. He counted one, two, three black hairs growing out of her mole. "Why doesn't somebody do something about them?" There, he thought. It's out.

In one instant, the counselor's friendly, chatty face disappeared. She squared her jaw. "Are you suggesting a way of dealing with this problem?"

"No."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

He didn't know. "I don't know. Something."

She poured her tea back into the Thermos and closed it. "That's the problem right there. Nobody else can think of a satisfactory way to deal with them, either."

"You could expel them," he offered.

"True, but picture a gang of twenty big guys with absolutely no direction, running around together and not even having to go to school. At least, the way we have it now, the police can pick them up if they're not at school." She spread her hands in a simple gesture that said I quit. "Plus, on what charges would we expel them? Tripping? Faking punches?"

"How about gang assault?"

Ms. Chandler nodded. "You could make a statement and press charges with the police, but it's not our kuleana."

"Not your what ?"

"Out of our jurisdiction. If I have my gossip right, that incident took place across the street, and it was provoked. And, it wasn't during school hours. And, it hasn't been officially reported."

"Provoked?" Raymond stood up, planning to leave.

She shrugged. "Somebody told me you spit in his face. Now, that wasn't very smart."

He'd spit in his face, all right, after Anthony'd spit in his hair, and after Saul had doubled him over with one punch. The security guards had been there, right across the street, watching—sitting on their fat kuleanas. Raymond wondered: if he and the Bloods had been on school property, would the guards have done anything? Would they have joined in?

He shouldered his bag. "I'm sorry. I guess you can't help me on this. I don't know if anybody can."

* * *

Susan was waiting outside the door, but Raymond swept past, not wanting to talk. She caught up and fell into step with him as he barged out of the office building.

"What did she say?" she asked, keeping up.

"She's afraid the Bloods are out of her jurisdiction." He started to push past her.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him around so he had to look at her. "Listen. Don't get mad at me." She stared straight into his eyes as he consciously tried to push the pent-up fury out of his mind. "Anger isn't constructive. Don't you see that? If you match their violence, all you'll get back is a lot more of it."

From where he was standing, on the corner in front of the office, he could see the gym, the gas station, the Coke machine. He swallowed, trying to regain his composure. "That first time, the first day of school, the cop told me not to hit back. Is that what you're telling me?"

She nodded.

Not wanting to look at her any more, Raymond turned and faced the office building. Somebody had sprayed "L B I's Incorperated" on the near wall—in the same place he'd first seen the initials, the day he'd registered. The day Susan had gotten a fist in her face. "Redundant little bastards," he said.

He felt her come up behind him and put one hand on his shoulder; the other went around his waist. "Don't hate them—pity them. Think about where you'll both be in ten years—damn, now you've made me sound like my dad." She gave him a little squeeze. "And if it's revenge you want, we'll think of something peaceful." She gently turned him back around. "Okay?"

He only nodded.

* * *

They thought of something peaceful that afternoon, sitting with their homework out on the terrace. It came from Susan's world history reading about the Teutonic tribes: the Goths, Visigoths and Vandals. Raymond liked the idea immediately and wanted to go through with it that night, but Susan said no. Too soon. It would be best to wait until, say, Thursday.

Tuesday, probably because of his and Susan's plans, Raymond began to notice it. It wasn't just the office—the Bloods had their tags everywhere. There weren't many places at Wailele High where you could stand or sit and not have the initials L. B. I. staring you in the face. They were sprayed on the buildings, Magic-Markered on the mirrors in the bathrooms, carved into the desks in the remedial classes. On Wednesday Raymond checked and verified that none of the desks in his English class had the Bloods' signature. Then someone told him that Mrs. Gruber taught all of the advanced Junior and Senior classes, and he understood perfectly.

Thursday afternoon they drove forty minutes into Kaneohe to buy the paint, partly because Susan had been craving Korean barbeque, and partly so they wouldn't have any witnesses. That night Raymond excused himself from the supper table, grabbed the paper bag he'd left on his bed and drove over to Susan's, where he changed into his navy blue sweat pants and a black Arizona Diamondbacks sweatshirt a friend of his had bought for him at the World Series. He wore it inside-out, over his other shirt. Susan had on a pair of black stretch pants and her black leather jacket, with a bright red shirt underneath. "To match the paint," she explained.

Raymond drove past the school and turned left, into a new housing subdivision built behind a stretch of jungly undergrowth, just up the hill from the school. Raymond parked his car in front of somebody's house, and he and Susan walked casually down the street, holding hands. Two flashlights and two cans of paint rattled in Raymond's backpack. Reaching the end of the street, they tromped through the border of high grass and dove into the brush, waiting to turn on the flashlights until the streetlights were completely blocked out by the vegetation. The trees grew close, their branches weaving into an almost solid mesh of vegetation. As they went, the jungle grew thicker, forcing them to crash through vines and runners to get through. Then, suddenly, they stumbled waist-high weeds behind Mrs. Gruber's portable.

They heard the security guard before they saw him. It was common knowledge that the school had a security guard stationed all night, but they had no way of knowing where he'd be at any particular time. So they'd decided that their first objective would be to find him. Susan led the way, slinking behind portables, ducking behind the library. Peering around the corner of the library, they marked him across the access road, leaning his chair against the outside wall of the gymnasium. He sat under a floodlight, reading a magazine. Next to him, a boom box blared raucous ukulele music. So much for an inconspicuous night watch, Raymond thought.

Susan gave him the okay signal and they got out the cans. The hardware store in Kaneohe had had two different shades of red to choose from: fire red and blood red. The choice had been obvious. The fire red was on the orange side anyway, and the blood red had too many wonderful connotations to pass up. They popped off the caps and dropped them into the bag.

If the security guard hadn't been sitting where he was, they would have started with the tag on the side of the office building. Instead, they began at the other side of campus. The three venomous initials had been sprayed in brown paint on both doors of the two corner portables. Gruber's classroom, where they'd come out of the jungle, sat next door, unscarred. They played paper-scissors-stone to decide who would go first. Susan came up with scissors, Raymond made a stone. His heart pumped in his ears as he climbed the steps, rattling his can.

He lifted his arm and sprayed a bloody circle and slash over the initials. Paint dripped down in little rivulets, creating a gory effect. Susan climbed the other steps, shook her can and sprayed away. Grinning like idiots, they stepped back into the road to survey their work.

"Wonderful!" she said.

"Perfect!" he said.

"Next!" she suggested.

They found a few tags on the bottom floor of Building Three, and desecrated them appropriately, wishing the gates across the staircases weren't locked so they could attack the graffiti on the second and third levels. On the portables, they circled and slashed each set of initials, then moved into the Tunnel of Hell. The dark walls of the corridor were coated with various messages, ranging from "I was heah" to "Ernie Ko blows his dog." In the center, on one side, were the three initials in large block letters.

"There used to be a mural in here," Susan said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. The kids who were seniors the year I was an eighth grader painted this big mural. It had, you know, the Wailele Warrior and kahunas and some surfers—that kind of shit. Then some Blood comes along last year and screws it all up, adding extra parts to the warrior, painting ufa and kefe and all kinds of Samoan swear words all over. Know what I mean?"

They were whispering, but Raymond had no idea why.

"So what happened?"

She turned around slowly, looking at what was left, lit by a lone floodlight. "The school painted it over. Brown—lovely, huh? That class was so proud of that mural. I mean, it was, like, their legacy." She shook her can like she was choking a small animal, and went to the far end of the hallway. In five-foot-high balloon letters, she painted: "L.B.I. = F.O.B." In the bottom corner of the wall she added a little red smiley face—like a signature.

Raymond looked at her, puzzled. "F.O.B.?"

"Fresh Off the Boat. Not a compliment."

Raymond nodded, smiling at the thought that he was fresher off the boat than the Bloods. Different boat, he decided.

"Shall we hit the cafeteria?"

There was one big tag on the side of the cafeteria, the initials in fat, bubbly letters with painted sparkles and shadows—a three-color job. Raymond got the honor, and sprayed an extra-thick line to compensate for the thick letters. Standing back, he saw he was getting better at circles.

"What about the office?" he asked, admiring his masterpiece.

"What about the guard?"

"Yeah, I know." He thought for a moment. Would it be worth it to risk themselves just to destroy that one, the tag everyone would see? "Maybe we can distract him."

She smiled at him. "What we really need is some C-4, and a little gasoline. We could blow up Building Three, set the cafeteria on fire …"

"Cute." He couldn't think of anything spectacular. "Well, how long does it take us to do one up anyway? A couple of seconds?" A police car went by out on the highway, its siren blaring. "If one of us sprays and the other watches, we'd be all right. Wouldn't we?"

"Let's do it," she said.

They circled around to the front of the office, the side facing the highway. The initials were just around the corner, in full view of Mr. Security Guard. Susan peeked around to make sure he was still there. Again, Raymond won the honor—paper covers stone—and he shook up what was left in his can as quietly as he could. Susan grabbed his hand and gave it a little squeeze, then Raymond counted to three. Then to four. He took a deep breath and slunk around the corner.

He worked quickly. He had to stand on his toes to get the top of the circle right, then had to sink back down and re-shake the can. Meanwhile, Susan gave him a play-by-play description of what was going on behind him. "He's still reading. Or at least looking at the pictures. Turning a page—" She stopped. "He sees you, I think. He's got a flashlight and he's—" She swallowed. "Hurry up, Raymond."

When Susan began humming, Raymond knew his luck was wearing thin. He could feel the circle of the flashlight slicing through the shadows on the building's cracks, and he felt like a prisoner, pinned to the outside wall of a penitentiary. As he finished the slash, shaking the sputtering can to get the last drops of paint out, Susan peeked out from behind the corner.

"Come on, Raymond."

"Let's go." He jammed the empty can into his bag and pushed Susan in front of him, not wanting to lose her. She took off, her leather jacket swishing as she moved.

Raymond and Susan made the trip to Mrs. Gruber's portable in thirty seconds. As they plunged into the brush they heard the security guard's rubber thongs slapping the pavement way back in the Tunnel of Hell. He was yelling for them to stop. They didn't bother with the flashlights; they just crashed through the vines, stumbling out the other side and sprinting to the car. Raymond didn't start it up right away. He slipped his sweatshirt over his head, still careful of his ribs, then sat there with his head resting on his arms, his arms on the steering wheel. His lungs burned as his chest heaved up and down.

Susan took off her leather jacket and sat—panting—in the seat. She eased it back a notch. "I bet the Visigoths never had this much fun," she said.

Raymond shook his head, having to wait a second to answer. "Except that they probably got to use real blood."

She leaned over and hugged him, both of them straining to bridge the gap between the bucket seats. She was hot and a little damp, and her back heaved up and down, alternating with the warm air that she was breathing on his neck. "I gotta get in shape," she said, choking on a giggle.

"You look fine to me," he said, backing off so he could see her. Her makeup was smeared. Her face was red and sweaty from the sudden sprint, and there were twigs and stray pieces of jungle in her hair. "You really look great."

"Shut up."

"No, really." He swallowed and picked a leaf out of her bangs. "So, what's the hottest 'item' in Wailele doing tomorrow night? Another movie? We could buy two Cokes."

The grin faded and she looked away. "Oh, Raymond, I can't. I'm sorry."

He stared at her.

"No, it's not that. I've got a wedding to go to."

"Not your own, I hope." His fingers tapped on the steering wheel. "That's okay," he said in mock disappointment, "I'll just stay home and sit alone in my empty room."

"You could always call up Larissa," she said.

"Over her dead body."

"How about something Saturday night?"

"If we're both still single." He switched on the engine and leaned over to give her a peck on the lips. Then, with deliberate slowness, he drove out of the housing development and headed for Kalohe.

* * *

Friday morning, Ms. Chandler called Raymond to the office during second period. He stared at the pink slip, surprised, though he knew he really should have expected it. But he hadn't expected one of the security guards to show up at math class with official summons in his hand. There was no way anybody could be sure about who did the mysterious anti-Blood graffiti the night before. That was, unless Susan had told somebody. Nope, there was no way.

Ms. Chandler was on the phone, and didn't acknowledge him when he entered. She just kept on talking, staring out through the bars on her window.

Raymond sat, not bothering to prepare a script.

Finally she finished, hung up the phone and looked at him. She smiled. He smiled back, not able to contain his amusement at the way she was handling this.

"Good mood today, Raymond?"

"Yep." He smiled again, avoiding looking at her mole for fear of breaking out laughing.

"Any special reason?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "T. G. I. F."

"Well, Mr. Harmon, I suppose by now you've noticed the fresh new change in our campus decor."

"Huh?" he grunted innocently.

"The red graffiti. The anti-Blood signs." She raised her chin and looked down at him. "Seen them?"

"Oh that. Yeah, I've seen them." He scratched his nose.

"Great work," she commented, with sarcasm Susan would have been proud of. "Don't by any chance know the identity of the artist, do you?"

He stuck his lower lip out and furrowed his brow in deep thought, then shook his head in an expression of deep regret. "Sorry. Can't help you."

She blinked. "I see. Well, I just wanted to know who did that, because the security guard couldn't give a very good description and I really wanted to find the person who did this and thank him," she paused dramatically, "or her. Or whatever. You see, we've just been allocated a nice chunk of emergency funding for a total repainting of Wailele."

Raymond just nodded. You have the right to remain silent, he told himself. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

"Well," she continued when she saw she wasn't getting anything out of him, "if you find out who this person is, please don't hesitate to tell me."

"I'll do that."

She stood up, a signal for him to leave. "Well, thank you. That would be very kind. Oh, and Raymond?"

He paused in mid-stand-up.

"That wouldn't be red paint on your backpack, would it?"

Raymond looked down to see a small red stain on the top flap. He must have done it by the library when he stuffed the can in. He couldn't figure how he could have missed it.

"Actually," he said coolly, "that's my sister's fingernail polish. She was looking for some filler paper while her nails were still wet." Sarah had never worn red nail polish in her life.

"Of course," Ms. Chandler nodded. "I didn't think it was paint."

Raymond turned to leave, getting as far as the door. Then he turned back. "I've got a question for you."

Ms. Chandler raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"When the Bloods vandalize the school, it wasn't any big deal. But then someone else vandalizes their vandalism, and suddenly the school board or whoever coughs up a bunch of money to cover it up. Doesn't that seem kind of out of whack?"

Ms. Chandler smiled at someone passing in the hall outside. "It's a strange world," she finally said.

Ray nodded. "This is a strange place."

He turned and walked down the hall toward the entrance, fighting off a fit of the willies. He was sure he could feel eyes on him all the way outside, as if the whole office suspected his guilt. Outside, janitors with rollers on sticks were applying a light grey primer to the office building wall—Mrs. Chandler's emergency allocation at work. Raymond wondered how long that would last.

© Copyright 2002 by David S. Baker