Red Shirt Kids by Bryce Clark Page A

felt powerful, invincible. On Main Street, he had passed a few people out for evening walks. He had even walked with a group of teenagers for a few blocks, just to see if anyone could feel his presence. But no one noticed.
You could take his wallet,
a dark thought raced through his mind. He shuddered and pushed the thought aside.
    Mike crossed the street and came to a single-floor, ramshackle house. The front door was dented, and the paint was peeling all over the house and garage. There were weeds growing out of cracks in the sidewalk and driveway; and, where there may have once been a green lawn, there was only dirt.
    In the driveway was a green tow truck. Mike noticed that the overhead lightbulb on the garage was busted. He made his way to the front of the home. He could hear the sounds of a television. He moved over to the garage and lifted himself up to look inside a grimy window.
    Inside the garage, Mike saw a lot of trash, old tools, and dying lawn equipment. In the corner, by the side door, Mike saw Sam’s red bike. Mike dropped down from the window and shuffled over to the door at the side of the garage. It was locked. He again hoisted himself up to look in the window and peered inside the garage. At the back of the garage, Mike could see that there was a door that led to the inside of the house.
    Mike eased back to the front of the house, being careful not to make a sound. His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his pants as he crept over to the front window that looked into the living room.
    A man was sitting in a recliner, beer bottle in hand. He had on a greasy T-shirt and dark blue mechanic’s overalls. The man was watching a sitcom on TV, laughing halfheartedly as he dropped the bottle into a pile on the floor and cracked open another one. His face was unshaven and dirty, and his hands were coated with grease. The man may have been forty, but Mike couldn’t be sure.
    Mike leaned back away from the window and thought.

    Amy sat on her bed as she sketched. Her door creaked open, and Laura peeked in.
    “Have you seen Mike?” asked Laura.
    “No. Have you checked his room?” Amy asked.
    “Just did. He’s not there.”
    “Well, a minute ago he was wandering around and checking for cool hiding places. I bet he’s doing that.”
    “Okay. Thanks.” Laura turned and headed out of the room, yelling Mike’s name.
    Amy felt a small pang of guilt, but she didn’t see a way around lying to her mom. She turned back to her sketch—a lifelike portrait of a doll that looked strikingly like Mike.

    Mike moved to the front door of the house. He put his hand on the doorknob and was relieved that it turned easily. He eased the door open slowly and slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him.
    Mike stood in the front entryway—a small space with a crooked coatrack and a straw welcome mat. He could see the man in the living room devouring a sandwich in front of the TV. Chunks of mayonnaise and pieces of lettuce hung onto his beard in globs.
    Mike turned as he heard a toilet flush from the hallway to his left. Ben opened the door to the bathroom and walked toward Mike. Mike held his breath as Ben moved past him and into the living room. Ben had a pretty bad black eye from the tennis ball that Sam had flicked back at him.
    Ben slinked down onto a ratty couch. Mike watched closely, frozen. He knew they couldn’t see him, but waves of terror cascaded over his body.
    Ben’s father turned to Ben. “Get the kitchen done.”
    “Can’t I watch TV with you, Dad?” asked Ben.
    “Get the damn kitchen done. Now,” said Ben’s father.
    Ben sighed and slowly rose off of the couch.
    “Dishes dried and put away. Don’t be stacking wet dishes in my cupboards,” said Ben’s father.
    Ben hung his head and slunk into the kitchen.
    Mike tiptoed into the living room and held his breath as he glided past Ben’s father and into the kitchen, where Ben was getting started on the dishes. Ben wiped his eyes. Mike stared