Shallow Grave by Alex Van Tol Page B

other guys all looked at each other. “Shit,” said the Ramone guy. “Harrison.”
    I bent to brace my shoulder against the back of the car.
    Purple Girl threw me a grateful look. “Thank god,” she said. “Someone who has half a brain.”
    I didn’t even know her name then.
    â€œYou guys going to help or what?” I asked, looking up.
    It was like my words broke them out of their spell. They took off, leaving the girl and me behind. I had to push the Smart Car off her foot by myself.
    Which wasn’t that hard, really.
    What was hard was getting treated like a criminal for trying to be a nice guy.
    Mr. Harrison didn’t care that I wasn’t in on the plan. He’s a dick like that, I discovered. All that matters is his own view of things. Smash through bushes. See two kids standing next to car. Car in wrong spot. One kid looks like he’s maybe the wrong color. Must punish. Hard. I guess it didn’t help that I’m new this year and he doesn’t know me. He had his own conclusions to jump to.
    I can see why you’d want to hide his car. The guy’s a jerk.
    That was a week ago. And now here we are.
    Shannon didn’t rat out the other nerds who were in on the prank, even though she had every right. I guess that’s respectable in some circles.
    But it doesn’t make me any less pissed off.

Chapter Three
    The faded red boathouse looms up in front of us, eerie in the dying daylight. A padlock hangs from the ring on the door.
    Low-grade anger simmers in my gut as my cold fingers fumble with the keys. Mr. Harrison handed them to me with a little sneer when I reported to the office after school today.
    â€œLet’s see if you’re as good at cleaning as you are at messing with private property, Owens.”
    I didn’t trust myself to try and explain it to him. Again.
    I just took the keys, looked him in the eye and gave him a nod. Let him figure out in time how mistaken he’s been.
    I select a key that looks like it’ll fit the big padlock. But before I can slide it in, the shackle swings open. Not even locked.
    I pocket the key and pull the door open.
    That old-wooden-building smell hits me.
    â€œWatch your step,” I say over my shoulder. The boathouse is raised on concrete blocks. I point to the space separating the floor from the ground so Shannon doesn’t trip on her way in. I don’t want to have to carry her out of here if she falls and breaks something.
    â€œLights?” Shannon asks. She’s standing beside me in the doorway.
    I fumble around for a switch. “I don’t think there are any,” I say.
    â€œThat’s weird,” she says. Our eyes adjust to the darkness. “It’s creepy in here.”
    â€œNah,” I say. But I don’t mean it. I just want to disagree with her, even though she’s right. The place is creepy as hell.
    What’s left of the daylight streams in through a high window. I set the heavy padlock down on a shelf. Something scuttles across the roof. Our heads turn toward the sound.
    â€œSquirrels?” Shannon asks.
    â€œMaybe. Or rats.”
    â€œRats?” Her voice comes out small.
    I nod. “They’ve probably made nests in the eaves.”
    She shivers. I wouldn’t have thought a punk like her could be nervous. She seems so sure of herself.
    Maybe she’s afraid of nature. Sometimes people like that are. It’s easier to feel rebellious in the city. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re strong when you’re surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers.
    I decide to ask her what I’ve been wondering. “What did Harrison do, anyway, that made you guys want to take off with his car?”
    She shoots me a look. “He’s a prick. You’ve seen that for yourself.”
    That’s the truth.
    â€œAnd he muzzles free speech. It sucks.” Her voice is hard. “I get it all the time with the newspaper.