Page 33 of Resurrection
"Makes sense."
"You never saw me there? I help out sometimes."
"Seriously? I never paid attention. But we lived in Lone Palm back then. Your truck wouldn’t come there often."
"Yeah, it’s not the nicest area. People would always try to hustle my dad for money there, ask for a discount or threaten him, and if something happened, cops took forever."
"That’s why we moved," Ty supplied, biting into the sandwich. "Cheap but shitty, especially after dark. My folks thought I’d become a drug dealer or something." He laughed, his eyes doing that bright thing.
"Then whatdoyou want to become?" I asked, curious. He didn’t seem like the academic type. I didn’t need to be in the same class with him to tell. He was all rebellion.
"I’m gonna have my own band," he whispered like it was the world’s biggest secret.
"Oh yeah?"
"Hey, do you know this kid, Jon Sheppe?"
"Why?"
"Your brother said he’s good on drums."
"Skinny J?" I looked around the cafeteria, pointing at the guy with spiky hair. "That’s him."
Ty glanced over to where I gestured and nodded. "Cool. Thanks."
"So, you’re serious about that band, then?"
"Dead serio?—"
The rattle of a tray and plates interrupted our conversation. We both turned toward the sound.
"Who’s the douche?" Ty jerked his chin in the direction of the local rich boy, who was currently standing with his entourage in front of the table whereDecker Harrington was most likely eating just a second ago. He was now kneeling in front of the food that had been tossed to the floor.
"That’s Lachlan Pratt," I explained, rolling my eyes. "Local entitled rich asshole cliche."
"Every town has one, huh?" Ty commented quietly.
"Pick it up, worm," Lachlan sneered and kicked Decker’s knee with his sneaker.
I didn’t know much about Decker. We went to the same middle school, but we were never friendly. I’d seen him around with bruises on his arms or neck sometimes.
Once, I'd heard my parents talking about his. They'd said Decker's Mom and Dad fought constantly and that Decker always got the short end of the stick. He seemed malnourished and miserable, and he didn’t deserve to be bullied by guys like Lachlan.
"Pick it up and eat it, worm," Lachlan repeated, and the kids around them just laughed.
"What a bunch of losers," I muttered, getting up from my chair. This constant ego parade was just too much—certain people thinking they had more rights than everyone else.
I strode over to where Decker was hunkering down and locked eyes with Lachlan. "Scram, Pratt."
"Excuse me? What did you just say?" His face scrunched up like he’d bit into a sour lemon.
"I’m not sure if you’re aware—or maybe you’re just clueless—but having money or white skin doesn’t give you the right to treat people like dirt."
"Don’t poke your pretty nose where it doesn’t belong."
"I think it’s you who doesn’t belong." I rarely showed my rage in public. I wasn’t sure if it was buried under generations of submission or if I simply didn’t like conflict. But right there and then, all that hatred I had in me came out. Diluted blood or not. It felt warranted. "If you steal our land, the least you can do it respect it, you piece of shit. This is not the eighteen hundreds. You're not better than any other student here and you don't own anyone."
"Ouch," someone whispered from somewhere in the crowd.
