Paul waits for Blake Biegler in the dusty field behind the school. Biegler is ten minutes late. He pokes his fingers through the chainlink, staring beyond the suicide barriers toward Golden Lakes. The morning traffic crawls up Route 8, but there's no sign of a blue Lexus. "Where the hell are you, Jiggler?" he mutters, to no one in particular. 

 Hiding under the bleachers a hundred feet away, some Bad Kids from Lincoln Falls are tending to their hackey sack welts and sharing lewd poetry about Lorena Bobbitt.

 Paul turns back to the circle driveway and sees Biegler emerging from a candy apple red Taurus. This is not the usual car. As he approaches, Paul notices the foam brace wrapped around his neck. Biegler laughs it off and says he's fine, but that his mom was in a fender-bender and she wants him to wear the brace until the settlement comes in. 

 "You ready?" asks Biegler. 

 Biegler thrusts his leg behind Paul's and shoves him into the dirt. Paul lets it happen. Then he pops back up, wiping dust from his sleeves. 

 "Bigger boom this time," says Biegler. Paul nods. Biegler shoves him again. Paul flails his arms and collapses, hamming it up like a pro wrestler. Biegler shoves him twenty-four more times before the eight o'clock bell rings. True to his word, he hands over the payment: $6.50. 

 "See you tomorrow?" asks Biegler. 

 "Yep," says Paul, "try not to be late, we can get more in."

 Paul feels a certain pride. He's working his first job.

#

 Red Cliff Middle School is a curious experiment. It funnels together the elementary schools from Golden Lakes and Lincoln Falls; the former accommodating the children from a gated community, and the latter hosting the sons and daughters of cashiers, janitors, and mechanics. By high school, most of the Golden Lakers will withdraw to private schools, but for three troubled years, the Lakes and the Falls are bound to each other.

#

 Paul's father is unemployed. His mother is working part-time at a Copy-A-Key kiosk in a parking lot on Portage Path. Last week, a small rise in her salary rendered Paul ineligible for the free lunch program. 

 Paul's father is a proud man, and though it doesn't fit his budget, he offers Paul $2.25 each day to buy lunch. Paul is a proud boy and usually refuses, but once or twice a week he will accept. Paul never spends it on lunch, however, and his grumbling stomach attests to this. $4.50 a week is pretty good––nearly an allowance––but it's not enough. There are things Paul needs.

#

 Biegler's parents are divorced. His father owns a sporting goods shop, and he is continuously surprised and disappointed––each time like the first––in Biegler's lack of athletic prowess. This has driven Biegler closer to his mother, a personal injury lawyer whose face is emblazoned on park benches and the sides of city buses. "Hey Jiggler," the kids from Lincoln Falls might say, "I sat on your mom's face last night." 

 One day, after heaving Paul into the dirt thirty-seven times, Biegler tearfully confesses a hatred for his parents. He says that in an ideal world, his father and mother would be Troy Aikman and Heather Locklear. Paul wipes the filth off his pants and mumbles some empty words of reassurance. 

 Some boys from Lincoln Falls walk by, singing, "J-E-L-L-O... he's aliiive!" The heaviest kid in school, Biegler is the only Golden Laker they dare to ridicule. He adjusts his neck brace and asks Paul if he wants to sign it, like a cast.

 "Nah," says Paul.

#

 Brandon Pax, an old friend from Lincoln Falls, has been observing from afar. "What is he, like, your pimp?" he asks.

 Brandon sports a bowl cut and a Mushroomhead t-shirt. He is considered a Bad Kid. He has recently returned from a semester away at a special school for Bad Kids, where he spent his time staring at clocks and cinderblock walls and carving the NIN logo into his forearm. 

 On the day Kurt Cobain died, he hurled a penny down the hallway in a rage and it accidentally struck the eye of a boy from Golden Lakes. There was a blindness scare, a lawsuit filed, and a recommended expulsion. Brandon's parents lived in a trailer and were terrified at the prospect of losing what little they had over their son's irresponsibility. Their terror externalized itself in violence. While the lawsuit was dropped with the return of the boy's vision, Brandon's lesson learned was not to reduce his reckless behavior, but rather to reduce it around boys from Golden Lakes. 

 "I'm not a whore," says Paul, "I'm just not." 

 "What does he pay?" asks Brandon. 

 Paul freezes up. "Um... a nickel a push," he lies.

 "Total whore!"

 Paul feels as though he has dodged a bullet. He has the Biegler market cornered and doesn't need any competition.

#

 "What do you spend it on?" asks Biegler. The blue raspberry slushie has turned his lips purple. "I never see you eat."

 "What?" says Paul. He is eying the selection of pocket pies in the vending machine but knows they're not worth the sixty-five cents.

 "What are you doing with all my money? A quarter a push... I must've gave you a hundred bucks by now."

 "Star Wars cards," Paul admits. They are a recent compulsion, and considered shamefully nerdy by the Lincoln Falls crew, though not quite so shameful as Magic: The Gathering.

 "I collect those, too," says Biegler. He lets it hang in the air, like maybe it could be the basis of a friendship.

 "Yeah," says Paul, uncommitted. "What I really want is the Darth Vader one. It's super rare."

 "I have it," says Biegler, slurping up the last of his slushie. "My Mom bought me the whole set. How much do you want it?"

 "I don't know. A lot."

 Biegler stretches his leg across the bench, waggling an Air Jordan in Paul's lap. "Kiss my shoe, and it's yours."

 Paul looks around to make sure no one's watching. "I wanna see the card first," he says.

 "Now or never," says Biegler. "One time offer."

 Paul scrutinizes the laces. They look clean enough. "Can I kiss it anywhere?"

 "No. Has to be the sole."

 Paul is certainly not above kissing a shoe, but he wonders if it's a put-on, a trap designed to boost Biegler's standing among the Falls kids. With exaggerated disgust, he shoves the sneaker off his lap. "I'm not kissing your dumbass shoe." 

 "Hmmph," says Biegler, turning up his nose. It is an amateur version of an expression his mother uses when she wants people to feel small. It marks the end of their mutual attachment.

#

 On Friday night, Biegler aches with loneliness. His mother orders Chinese takeout and complains about her job between sips of Chardonnay. She lets Biegler choose which video to watch. His choices are Nell and The Age of Innocence. It is like deciding between death by ice and death by fire. He chooses Nell in the hope of seeing Jodie Foster's boobs, even though he knows his mother will insist he shut his eyes at the first sign of nudity. She presses "Play" on the remote, and, fifteen minutes in, he begins fiddling with his Game Boy, concealed from her view by a throw pillow.

 Across town, Brandon and the Bad Kids from Lincoln Falls do whippets in the Chi-Chi's parking lot. They ride their bikes in circles and compete over who can pop the highest wheelies. The losers have their fingernails set on fire, but only for a few seconds.

 Paul holes up in his bedroom, reading a library book and sorting his trading cards. He tries to find a good station on the radio and wonders if there's anybody else out there doing the same thing.