Dissension by R.J. Wolf Page B

back.  He could hear her faint retort, but it was cut short as he slammed the front door.
    Mikey and Steve stood on the sidewalk in front of the house.  Mikey was a gangly fifteen year old standing almost a foot taller than anyone else in their class.  His knotted blonde hair and often sun burnt shoulders were proof of his heavy involvement in California’s favorite sport.  He knew Anthony since the first grade and had already mapped out their college plans as party animals.
    Steve on the other hand, was the polar opposite of Mikey.  He was a short, pudgy, freckled face teen who oddly enough was voted coolest kid in the school three years in a row.  His sweaty, unkempt black hair seemed to grow in direct violation of all things natural.  But somehow he managed to be extraordinarily popular with the ladies.
    “So what’s so important you nearly broke my window and gave me a concussion?”  Anthony asked as he stepped off of the porch.
    “Two things," Mikey replied with a sinister grin.  "Number one, I saw your woman and her friends headed down to the beach in her new car.  And two, Mrs. Clark finally killed her husband."

 
 
III
    HOUSE OF SECRETS
     
    Anthony eyed Mikey for a minute then shook his head.  "Which beach did she head to?"
    "Rocks, but did you hear me?  Mrs. Clark killed her freaking husband."
    "Yeah I heard you and you sound stupid.  Seriously Mikey, you wake me up for this?  I’m going back to sleep,” Anthony said dismissively then started to head back inside.
    “No really!” Steve shouted as he grabbed his shoulder.  “I was there. I saw it...I saw it.  The ambulance was pulling up on our way over.”
    Anthony knew Mikey was keen on making everything sound overly important, but Steve rarely went along with any of Mikey’s ill-conceived ideas.  If Steve said it happened then it happened.
    “Fine,” Anthony replied.  “Let’s go.”
    “We gotta get Mit first,” Mikey smiled and jumped on his bike, which looked freakishly small when he rode it.
    Sighing, Anthony grabbed his long board.  He pushed off into the street and followed after Mikey and Steve.  They rode around the corner and stopped outside of a white, colonial house with maroon brick pavers.
    "Mit get your ass out here," Mikey yelled.
    "His mom's home dude," Steve warned him.  "Watch your language."
    "Who cares, she deaf."
    Mit stumbled out of the house, stuffing a blueberry muffin into his mouth.  He pulled a rusty mountain bike from around the side of the porch and climbed on top of it.
    "One of us really needs to get a car," he grumbled.
    Mit was a fiery Irish kid, who was just about normal in every way.  But his IQ, which he would never mention, just about doubled everyone around him.  He was the shortest out of the group, but was normally the first to dive head on into a fight.
    The path to Mrs. Clark’s house was ridden flat throughout the summer. The dilapidated house next door had been turned into a makeshift nightclub by the neighborhood kids.  There were always parties going on and liquor bottles scattered across the lawn.
    That was how all the rumors started in the first place.  A few drunk kids peeping through window and the legend of the "Crazy Clarks," was born.  Over the years it'd just gotten worse and now it seemed to have reached it's peak.
    Mikey cut through the grass in front of the vacant house and jumped off of his bike. He ran over to a tattered wooden fence that separated Mrs. Clark’s yard from the house that everyone called "the hub."
    “See look,” Mikey said with an excited grin on his face.
    Anthony walked up to the fence and peered through the cracks.  Sure enough there it was, an ambulance sitting right in Mrs. Clarks driveway.  Two paramedics strode out of the front door rolling a gurney with a sheet over it, presumably covering Mr. Clark’s body.  Hobbling behind them, a distraught Mrs. Clark sobbed, wiping her face with a checkered handkerchief.
    Her hooked nose jutted