Chapter 1

Ever start a school day with a mouthful of your own blood sliding down your throat? It’s not good. Neither is having your face smashed up against a wall of steel lockers or feeling searing pain shooting up your arms and back because a couple of shitholes have both your arms twisted viciously behind your back.

It took my scrambled brain a few second to grasp that I had been blind-sided, ambushed from behind. A powerful hand drove my face into the steel combination lock of my locker, forcing the soft tissue of my cheek into my teeth. Blood flowed down my throat and out the sides of my mouth. Two other hands gripped my arms, wrenching them up as far as they could possibly go. My arms screamed in agony, white-hot pain permeated my back. A person had shoved himself up against me so tightly that I was pinned almost flush to the metal wall. Escape wasn’t a possibility.

Even in my dazed state, I had a pretty good idea of who jumped me—Jeffrey Gram. I hated Jeffrey Gram from our first encounter, which had happened during second period on my second day at this high school. I had been in calculus when the office sent a note requesting my presence, so I had headed down the hallway and ran right into Gram and one of his buddies. They’d had a skinny Indian kid jacked up by the shirt collar and mashed up against the wall. The kid had looked scared and humiliated. As I trotted on past them, I made a sarcastic comment about idiots without balls picking on people smaller than themselves. They warned me to mind my own damn business if I knew what was good for me—good advice for someone just biding time in a new place. However, I had a hard time ignoring bullies because in my younger days I’d been the target of a couple of them. I supposed this was Gram’s way of backing up his threats.

An attempt to lift my face off the steel to get a glimpse of the two idiots pinning me only resulted in getting it bashed back down. The sound of reverberating metal bounced around in my skull, right along with a few stars. A groan escaped my lips.

Jeffery Gram’s hate-filled voice was a sneering whisper from the back of my head. “Looking for something in your locker, Injun lover? There ain’t no buffalo in there.”

Hearing Jeffrey’s voice boiled my blood. “Like there aren’t any balls in your shorts, tough guy?”

Gram tightened his grip and leaned hard into me, sending more hot pain rushing up my arms. “Know the saying: ‘A dead Injun is better than a live Injun’? Around here, we have a better saying—”

“It’s Indian, moron, not—”

“Do I care?” Jeffrey hissed in my ear, spraying droplets of spit on my neck. “The saying ‘round here is: ‘a dead Injun lover is better than a live white Injun lover.’ You like that?”

His buddy snickered, but I decided to let it go for now. I’d be getting around to him soon enough—whoever he was.

I managed a derisive laugh and felt blood leak out one side of my mouth. “You’re clever, aren’t you, Gram? At least, you think you are, but you’re nothing but a damn coward. It takes a lot of guts for two guys to jump somebody from behind, don’t it? Sooner or later you’re gonna have to let go of me and when you do, we’ll see just what you’re made of.”

“You promise?” Jeff taunted as he drove an elbow between my shoulder blades.

Another groan escaped me.

Then a familiar, sarcastic voice broke in. “Hey, Scout, making out with your locker? I suggest girls buddy. They’re a heck of a lot softer and they’re more likely to participate.”

“A little help here, Mingo?” I groaned out, grateful that help had arrived.

Jeff warned, “Stay out of this, Torres! This ain’t your business!”

“Maybe not, but you have a friend of mine doing indecent things to a locker…”

Giggles and low bursts of laughter erupted behind me. I moaned in humiliation and uttered a curse. I should’ve known there’d be a crowd watching the whole damn show. What high school student could pass up such a scene as this? A melodrama—with me forced into the starring role.

I objected as loudly as I could. “Goddamn it, Mingo!”

Jeff snarled another warning. “Get lost, Tonto!”

Mingo laughed, then his voice grew quiet and menacing. “Let him go.”

I felt a slight slacking of the arms that held me pinned to the steel wall. I waited, anticipating the moment of release. I’d be coming off the lockers swinging.

Gram took to cussing Mingo, but he stopped the second someone hissed a warning.

“The principal is coming!”

After a final body slam, the human manacles came off me and I spun around. My body held onto the pain, but my fists were doubled and cocked. My mind was set on beating the hell out of Jeff Gram and his damn sidekick. The first person on whom my eyes flashed was Mingo. He was standing just to the right of me, his brown face amused. Ignoring the scattering students, I scanned for the two cowards who had jumped me. Gram and his cohort, a short, burly white guy I didn’t know, had taken a few steps back and were waiting for me. Gram’s face wore a smug sneer, but his buddy looked tense.

I started for Gram. “You goddamn son of a bitch!”

Mingo grabbed my arm and flicked his head to the right. “Mr. Davis is standing over by the office, Scout. These two aren’t worth a suspension. There will be another time.”

Gram snickered. “Don’t worry, Logan… we’re not done with you.”

I spat out a mouthful of blood. “I look forward to it. That goes for your buddy there, too.”

Gram’s gaze went past me, checking the principal’s location. It shifted back to my face a moment later. He smirked, and then he and his pal turned and strutted down the hall, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

I glanced at Mingo. “Bastards jumped me!”

“They’re known to do that,” he said. Pointing to my face, he added, “You’ve got blood there.”

I ran a hand across my mouth, glanced at it, and saw blood. A drinking fountain stood to the right of the lockers. I went to it, cupped some water, and splashed it on my face. No more blood, but now water droplets spotted my shirt. I didn’t have time to care about it. I picked my books and papers up off the concrete walkway, threw them into my locker, and stalked to American history with Mingo.

“How many days have you been here?” Mingo asked, nodding to a trio of Indian boys trotting the opposite way.

“Too damn many,” I replied, tasting blood. My tongue had found the damage.

Mingo snorted. “Welcome to Parker, Arizona, Scout Logan. Good news—it only gets worse!”

“Wonderful!”

All through American history the locker scene played over and over in my mind, and with every rewind, my fury shot up several degrees. I saw myself through humiliated eyes, smashed up against the row of gray lockers that lined the breezeway, the perfect place to attack a person if you wanted to ensure humiliation. Intimidation was the primary intention behind the attack on me, I was positive of that, but humiliation ran a sure second. I wanted to ditch class, pretend I was sick or something, and go hunt Jeff Gram down so I could beat him to a bloody pulp. I’m not one to put off stuff like this. Patience wasn’t a virtue I had to brag about. I see it this way: if you hassle me, you’d better believe I’m going to return the favor.

Sitting in class was killing me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything that Mrs. Klausen said. Only two things kept me from bolting out of the classroom and most likely getting myself expelled from school: picturing the disappointment on my folks’ faces and not seeing the face of a beautiful girl who didn’t even know I had come to town.