My mom calls me over. She hasn’t looked happy in so long, but she looks especially not happy with me right now. Whatever she’s talking to Baby Freddy’s mother about—a conversation I can’t make out because she rarely uses Spanish at home—she cuts herself off and snaps, “I’m very proud of myself for not storming into your place of work after I learned you weren’t at Brendan’s last night.”
Not really sure why Baby Freddy’s mother is hanging around since gossip is pointless when everyone already knows what’s going on.
“Who told you?”
“Your brother.”
I was hoping it was just word of mouth. “Judas.”
“You are under our watch, Aaron, and you don’t have the same freedom your father and I once allowed you, not anymore. If you’re going anywhere, I know about it and I have to speak with the adult who’s going to be there.”
“Okay, yeah. Fine. Can I go?”
“Were you safe?”
“Yes, Mom.” Fucking kill me. The smell of burnt hot dogs catches her attention and I head back to my friends. Brendan, Skinny-Dave, and Baby Freddy all give me the yo-you-just-got-in-trouble-like-some-little-kid look. “Fucking Eric snitched on where I spent my night.” I flip him off even though his back is turned to me. “Let’s just get a game going, okay?”
How to Play Manhunt: One person is designated as the hunter and everyone else has two minutes to hide somewhere inside our block. Once the hunter catches you, you’re on his team and you have to help him capture other players until everyone’s caught or the hour is up.
It’s sort of like tag, except way more intense.
Baby Freddy asks for any volunteers to be the hunter. He’s automatically out because the last time he was hunter, his mother called him upstairs for his 9:00 curfew and left us all hiding for an hour before we realized he was home. Both Daves hate hunting. Deon bites the bullet and counts down.
Brendan and I try keeping up with Me-Crazy as he storms into the garage where we’re sure we’ll see Skinny-Dave any minute. He always hides underneath cars (which almost ended badly . . . twice). Me-Crazy is our resident manhunt fanatic, and we’re pretty sure he will become a threat to society the next time he’s really bored. But for now, he’s a bit of a pioneer when it comes to the best hiding spots. He was the first to discover the third-floor hallway window of Building 135 opens up to the connecting rooftop—where we throw all our deflating handballs and empty Top Pop bottles and Arizona cans from ground level. He’s also the only player to this day to ever hop a ride on top of a moving Nissan to get away from six hunters. No joke, but his name is also Dave. He nicknamed himself Me-Crazy after all these not-so-sane stunts, and because of that one time he clipped the wings of a wounded bird for a laugh. We’re lucky he likes us.
Me-Crazy’s Timberland boots don’t slow him down, but his footsteps are so loud I’m surprised they never give him away. “Stop following Me-Crazy,” Me-Crazy says. “Yah going to get Me-Crazy caught.”
“Not if we all hide together,” I gasp. Brendan is lagging behind.
Me-Crazy halts, and it’s not so he can point out his next hiding space. He rolls his eyes back until all we see is white. He punches his own face and jogs in place.
Oh shit: Crazy Train Mode. When he’s like this, he lifts people up onto his shoulders and bangs them against walls and cars and whatever the fuck else is around.
“We’ll stop following you, goddamn it,” I tell him.
We jet around him while he stands still, not turning back; he knows we know better.
“Fucking psycho,” Brendan says as we reach the far end of the garage and run into Building 155. We sneak into the unoccupied maintenance office and catch our breath. It smells like dirty mop water and toilet plungers. Brendan spits inside this sink that’s filled to the brim with yellowed water. “You have to tell me about Genevieve’s tits now.”
“No way.”
We hear footsteps and crouch, keeping our backs against a broken-down table.
“Punk,” Brendan whispers, peeking over the table for Deon or custodians. “Props to you, A. I thought for sure you were going to pull some fag shit and not go through with it.”
“You wish,” I whisper back. “It was pretty fucking incredible.”
“I bet. No homo, but I would watch that sex tape to see your girl in action. Not you.”
“I’m really uncomfortable right now,” I joke.
“FUCK.”
I turn to see what’s got Brendan wilding out. Deon is coming toward us. We both hop up and separate so he’ll have to choose. I don’t like my odds. Deon is fit from years of being on the football team and once he grapples me, I’m done. (Yeah, you gotta basically bear-hug someone for three beats of “Manhunt one, two, three. Manhunt one, two, three . . .” to capture them.) Deon fakes coming for me and grabs Brendan, setting me up for escape.
I bolt, my heart pumping hard. I skip stairs, slamming open the door. I’m running out of breath but I can’t get caught now, not unless I want to spend the rest of the game figuring out where the fuck Me-Crazy is. We’d all have a better chance finding Bigfoot playing with the Holy Grail. I head to the little alleyway where I can hide inside a Dumpster—hell no, scratch that—hide behind a Dumpster. But the gate is locked.
Upside: I’m skinny enough to squeeze my way through if I can pry the gate open.
Downside: I’m too skinny and lacking the muscle needed to pull this off.
Someone behind me whistles. I almost jet down the block toward Dead Man’s Corner, named so because it’s easy to get cornered if you’re up against two hunters. But it’s not Deon or Brendan. Some stranger-guy with light brown skin and thick eyebrows is standing at the curb. He’s with a short girl with dyed red hair who looks frustrated or sad or both.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah, playing manhunt,” I manage. “And it’s going to be game over in a sec.” I keep pulling and pulling, trying to squeeze in but am just going to get stuck. “Fuck you, gate!” Eyebrows Guy says something to the girl, turns his back on her, and walks over to me. She looks fucking murderous and finally walks away while he nudges me to the side. He pulls open the gate. “Get in there.”
“Awesome, thanks.” I slide in and take cover behind some cinder blocks since the Dumpster chokes me with its stench of hot garbage. I hear footsteps stampeding our way and I lie flat on the ground, the concrete warming my face and smelling like baked tar.
I hear Eyebrows ask, “You looking for some tall kid?” I can only assume Deon and Brendan nod because he then says, “He went that way.” The footsteps continue on toward Dead Man’s Corner. “Coast is clear, Stretch.”