Only Travis Kneely was there, huddled into a black coat, his usual backwards baseball cap covering his military-short, dark hair. He ignored me, instead keeping his attention narrowed on his phone. I preferred it when people didn’t acknowledge me. Being the center of attention was strange after so many years of trying to go unnoticed, trying to fly below the radar so no one would notice my latest bruises. I sat in my usual spot under Mrs. Morisee’s little palm tree and settled my backpack next to me. Slowly, like prisoners headed to their execution, the neighborhood kids started to trickle up to the stop. Aaron Kneely sulked his way across the road from his house and took up position near his brother. Their coats matched—obviously they hadn’t picked them out. No self-respecting teenage boy chose to match his brother. A few minutes later, Jerome Smith sauntered into the yard, ever-present football tucked under his arm. At least today, he’d dressed the part of a football-obsessed jock in a grey and blue Coyotes jersey.
