There was only one rule:
Only take loose change. No dollars. No jewelry. No wallets. Only change.
Usually they used it for extras at lunch.
Today it was for something else.
* * *
The sound of the bell ringing, signaling the end of the day, might as well have been a starter pistol or an air horn. Something to make the Low Cuts go. And go they did. They burst from their classes—Bit and Trista from English, John John from math, and Francy from Spanish class. After stopping at their lockers, swapping books, packing bags, they burst from the school and gathered at the meeting place.
There were three benches to the right of the double doors. The first was being babysat by some boy in a uniform holding a broken skateboard across his lap, stroking it like a hurt dog. The second was occupied by Gregory Pitts and his friends swatting their arms through a cloud of body spray that smelled like cinnamon if cinnamon smelled like garlic. And the third bench was where the Low Cuts always met. A base chosen by Bit.
Bit was the tiniest person in their crew. And the obvious leader. He was always going on and on about how his growth spurt was going to come soon and then he’d be the tallest, but nobody believed him. And even though Bit was half the size of his friends, he was the biggest when it came to confidence. And when it came to temper. He was known for knocking people out. There was a kid named Trey who was picking on John John, calling him an old man because John John had a patch of gray hair in the front of his head. He was born with it. A birthmark. Teased for it his whole life. Funny thing was, the gray patch, when cut low, looked more like a ringworm and would’ve made for much better jokes, which were the jokes Bit would’ve cracked if John John weren’t his Low Cut brother. But Trey wasn’t that sharp.
“John John, you was born a senior citizen,” Trey said.
“John John, you look like you getting ready to retire from middle school,” Trey said.
“John John, soon you gon’ need a walker to be a… walker,” Trey said.
“John John—”
That was the last John John Trey spoke before Bit’s fist fist went in his mouth so fast fast it knocked him out out in the middle of the crosswalk. Thankfully the crossing guard, Ms. Post, was there to wake Trey up. And while she was helping, Bit took off running.
He’d done the same for Francy when boys were picking on her for having short hair, calling her Franky, but she never paid them no mind. It never really bothered her. Francy always had a way of ignoring that kind of thing. The bigger person and all. But not Bit. Bit would knock heads, no question. And if no one was around, he’d pat their pockets after putting them to sleep. But only for loose change. Of course.
Trista wasn’t the type who needed any kind of puff-up from Bit. She was the kind of girl nobody messed with. Nobody. She could slice you to slivers with one sentence. Plus she was a daddy’s girl, and he raised her up in martial arts. Tae Kwon Do Trista. Everyone had seen her do a roundhouse kick at a school talent show, and that was enough for no one to ever try her. Including Bit.
The four of them together were the kids teachers were concerned about. The ones they talked trash about in the teachers’ lounge. The ones they marked as “at risk.” They were the ones Ms. Wockley would wag her finger and shake her head at whenever they walked down the hall or sat together and had secret meetings at lunch. The way they were—a braid of brilliance and bravado—concerned everyone.
“Everybody ready?” Bit asked, one foot on the bench, huddling everyone up. Trista was the only one not paying attention. She was talking to a boy who responded awkwardly, like he was scared or something. No surprise. “Trista.” Bit shot her a look.
“Ready, ready.” Trista joined the fold, slipping her phone from her back pocket to check the time. “It’s 3:16.”
“Truck comes in an hour,” Francy announced.
“Let’s see how much we got,” John John said, opening his hand. Some dimes. A nickel. Everyone else dug in their pockets and dropped their findings into John John’s cupped palm. A few more nickels. Some found in the change slots of the lunchroom vending machines. Others found deep in the pockets of unsuspecting skinny boys wearing unforgiving skinny jeans. Quite a few pennies found swept into the corner by Mr. Munch, the school’s janitor. These had to be sifted out from dust bunnies, gum wrappers, and hair ties. Nickels and dimes swiped from teachers’ desks. Only from the top. Never from the drawers.
No quarters on this run. Unfortunately.
Trista moved the change around with her finger, counting. “Seventy, eighty, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine…”
“Ninety?” Bit asked, his eyes darting from John John’s palm to the double doors. Ms. Wockley was always too close for comfort.
“Yeah. Only ninety cents,” Trista confirmed, counting it all again. She turned to Bit, who was rocking back and forth, anxious. “Think that’s enough?”
Bit spat. “We’ll make it work.” He marched off and the others followed behind, worming through the crowd and up to the light. They crossed and headed down the main road—Portal Avenue—cars and bikes zooming past. Buses, both public and school, grumbling and screeching, smoke billowing from the tailpipes.
Even though they were tight on time, they were loose on talk. Francy, in particular, was motor-mouthing—she always did when she was anxious—asking John John if he’d ever heard of anybody named Satchmo, because there was a kid in her Spanish class named Satchmo Jenkins, and she just liked the name.
“Nope. Never heard of nobody else named Francy either though,” John John said with a shrug.
“Yeah, but Francy is short for Francis,” she went on.
“Well, maybe Satchmo is short for… Satchmo… reece… Maurice… Satchmaurice… Satchmo… Satchmocha… Satchmocha latte… Satch…”
“Satchmo Money,” Bit sparked, annoyed by the silly conversation Francy and John John were having, and also by the silly conversation Trista was trying to have with him.
“Bit, I’m serious,” Trista was droning on. “What you gonna write about being?” Trista was referring to their English homework. Ms. Broome wanted each student to write about being something else. Not a person. A thing.
“I keep telling you, Trista. I don’t know,” Bit replied as a school bus rumbled by. “How ’bout a school bus? That good enough for you?”
“Not really,” Trista said. The school bus was coming to a stop, its brakes grinding. Bit covered his ears.
“I hate that sound. Matter of fact, I’d be a school bus that could fly. That way I ain’t gotta hit the brakes and make all that noise.” Bit looked over at Trista. “How ’bout that?”
“All I’m gon’ say is, I could totally see you, a school bus falling from the sky.” Trista laughed to herself, but just loud enough for Bit to hear.
“Well, at least then I’d be a rocket.”
* * *
After six blocks they turned down Crossman Street, stopping at the first house. The one that sat on the corner. An older house with a bunch of cars parked in the yard. Barrel grills and Big Wheels in the driveway. A mess, but the home of the munchie master, Ms. CeeCee.