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worker said it would be good for me. She said at the very minimum it would get me away from the kids I used to hang out with, kids who were gang-member wannabes. I was one of those kids too. If you were in a gang, you were part of something. You knew there was always someone who had your back. You were respected. You had a place, which was more than I could say about the dump I used to live in with my father, who, if you ask me, is a total lowlife. He got busted for being part of a car-theft ring, but not an important part, not the brains of the operation. Not even close. He was one of the guys who worked in a chop shop for cash. But he knew what he was doing. He knew those cars were stolen. The prosecutor knew that my dad knew. They tried to make a deal with him—plead guilty and you’ll do a little time. Roll over and tell us everything you know, you’ll get probation. My dad refused. He claimed he had no idea what was going on. So they gave him as much time as they could, and I went to live with Mrs. Girardi. I didn’t want to be there. I hated that I had no say over where I lived. That’s why I got together with my friends and we trashed the place. I wasn’t mad at Mrs. Girardi. Mostly I was angry at my dad. That was the last time I saw all of my old friends together. But it wasn’t the last time I saw any of them.
    A couple of weeks ago, just before the end of school, I went back to Mrs. Girardi’s neighborhood. She’d always been good to me, and I wanted to see how she was doing. I’m glad that I went too. She was so happy to see me. But it made me sad to think about it now. Mrs. Girardi was in pretty bad shape. She had one of those little tubes that poked up both her nostrils to give her oxygen, and there was a big container of oxygen beside the chair where she was sitting. She had lost a lot of weight, and her skin was a dusty gray color. When I lived with her, she was always bustling around. But when I went to visit her, she didn’t get up even once. I felt sorry for her, and I promised to visit her again.
    Then, on the way back to the Ashdales’ house, I ran into Tilo, one of my old friends. Well, I sort of ran into him.
    Tilo was racing down the street toward me, and no wonder. He was being chased by three guys. I recognized who they were—they were all members of the Nine-Eights, real tough guys who got their name from the address of the high-rise where the original members had lived. They were rivals of the gang I used to hang around with, even though I wasn’t a member. Tilo ran right past me and ducked into an alley. He looked scared. I didn’t even think about what I was doing—I pretended I didn’t know him and, when the Nine-Eights ran by, I stuck out my foot and tripped the first guy. He fell flat on his face. The second guy didn’t react fast enough, and he fell on the first guy. The third guy almost went down—but at the last minute, he jumped over his buddies and spun around to look at me. The fierce look on his face told me that he had changed targets. He didn’t care about Tilo anymore. He wanted me.
    I took off.
    I didn’t look back, but I heard feet pounding the cement behind me.
    I raced for a main street. There would be a lot of people out there. I would be safer—maybe.
    A hand hooked my shoulder. I tried to shake it off. A second hand hooked my other shoulder. Before I knew it, I had been jerked off my feet and was lying on my back on the sidewalk. The guy who had been chasing me threw himself onto me, but I twisted out of his way. He landed on the cement. I tried to get up. He grabbed my leg and pulled me down again. I kicked him with my free foot. I must have made serious contact, because he howled in pain. I scrambled to my feet and starting running again, but with a limp this time. I’d really banged up my knee on that last fall.
    I reached the main street just in time to see a bus lumbering to a stop