Chapter 11: School Daze

As the early morning sun peeked over the trees, Calix sat immobile. The morning sun wasn't warm; it was cold, the cold of late winter. Detroit was having an unusual winter; normally by mid-December the snow could be counted in meters. Here it was, late February, almost March and there'd been only a dozen centimeters or so of the stuff spread out over the previous months. It was almost as if the city sat on the precipice of madness and the weather couldn't decide upon which side to fall.

He'd used the motorcycle much more than he'd expected this winter; there were only a few days when he couldn't ride. Now, though he didn't see a cloud in the sky, he could smell the snow on the wind. It was coming; he just wasn't sure how long he had to wait.

Life, it seemed, was like that. You hurried up to wait and then, when you least expect it, life happened; usually when you were busy planning something else. Calix smiled wryly; he was pretty sure he'd read that somewhere.

Calix probed his various bruises, contusions, cuts and scrapes. His body was taking a lot of mileage rather quickly. It was healing quickly, though; there wasn't as much pain as before. The strain of his nightly activities wasn't helping much but he'd always been quick to heal. Even as a little boy; he'd broken his ankle when he was seven doing something stupid – climbing a tree his father had told him not to climb – and the bone had healed in 4 weeks instead of the normal 6-8. The doctors called it good metabolism or something; he just called it luck.

His quest hadn't been going so well. He'd spent the past five nights hunting and he had next to nothing for his efforts; just a poor collection of rumors, whispers and innuendos. As he worked the night before, hunting down yet another wild story, he'd promised himself that if this one didn't pan out he'd do something to press the issue. It hadn't.

Sitting here, in the early morning, had been his best idea. He wasn't all that certain, though, that it was such a good idea. No, that wasn't quite right. He was pretty sure the idea sucked. Unfortunately, it was the best idea he could come up with. After four long, fruitless nights he needed to make something happen. He couldn't wait forever; regardless of folk wisdom, sometimes you just had to poke the bear.

The rumors he'd been following had come from different sources. Steve Halbright – the old navy vet who managed to stay so clean while looking so dirty as he panhandled cars when they got off I-75 – was certain that the Cholos were hiding out with the Dukes. The rumor he'd heard was that they'd made some big deal with the rival gang. Patty Lettenen – an aging prostitute whose beauty was yet hinted at and who worked the south end of Vernor – was fairly certain the Cholos were dealing with the Humps; she'd heard whispers that they were distributing the Humps meth product now. Gabe Mortice – a man who was too young to be a wino but too old to be a common drunk – had heard that the Cholos were hiding in one of the abandoned buildings that lined Vernor.

The Dukes he'd visited – primarily low level members living on the fringes that could be easily swayed to give out information – would only confirm that they had a deal with the Cholos – and then, only with some persuasion. They knew that Calix was out at the Cholos – and evidently Tomas had offered some substantial sums to anyone who either delivered Calix or his whereabouts. It seemed the traitorous murderer had been spreading the fictional account of how Calix had 'gone crazy' and killed Rico to everyone who'd listen; it at least confirmed what Alicia had told him. None of the Dukes were willing to turn Calix in – at least, according to them – but they weren't going to help him either. More than likely, they were just afraid; the interesting stories about the young man they called Espanto tended to get around. Not everyone believed in the stories, of course, but no one was sure they wanted to test them.

The Humps were too stoned to really give him any info. All they would confirm was that the Cholos had expressed interest in distributing their "product" – and then they would only give up the info after Calix had trashed a few of their meth labs. Calix was rather disgusted by the turn; Rico would have never let the Cholos move drugs. It brought down too much heat for too little reward, he'd always said. Besides, Rico'd confided once, he didn't like the idea of taking advantage of addicts who didn't have the money or sense to get off the stuff in the first place.

Rumors, whispers and innuendos. After five nights of hunting, that's all he had. Oh, he saw signs the Cholos were getting more active; new tags – spray painted signs with the Cholos logo, yet another thing that Rico had advocated against – were springing up in the neighborhood, old friends of the Cholos walking around again, and other petty stuff like that. What he didn't find – couldn't find – were actual members of the gang.

Hence, his decision to move things along, just a little.

School. There were five current Cholos who still attended school; freshmen Josh Whitney and Whiskey Summers, sophomore Tyrone Beal and seniors Nicole Conejo and Vincent Posey. Five opportunities to be turned in; surely one of them would share his whereabouts with the gang. He was betting the bangers would know he'd returned to school by second period if not sooner. It chanced a confrontation at the school or immediately after it on school grounds – but even Tomas couldn't be that stupid, could he? If there was one thing that was prone to move the local police, it was a gang shooting at school – well, that and taking out a cop. Since there were cops stationed at the school, it was entirely possible to get a two-fer – and even Tomas had to have enough common sense to avoid that.

He had slept little last night but then he slept little most nights. For some reason, two to four hours were more than enough sleep. So, he'd run his ten miles and spent his hour and a half exercising his core, chest and arms. He had to admit that the workout felt great despite the twinges of pain in his chest and wrist. He felt alive again even though the bruises and cuts on his face and body hadn't quite yet faded.

He'd grabbed a nutrition bar – vitamin soaked cardboard wrapped in plastic – and rode in. The school didn't open to students until 7:00; he was sitting, waiting, by 6:50. Early enough to witness the sun begin streaming onto the red brick building.

His plan was to get into school before the Cholos caught wind; he wanted to provoke the confrontation but he wanted to do it on his terms. Besides, he couldn't guarantee that Tomas was quite that smart; he might send his gunners out early and innocent people might get hurt. Never risk the intelligence of your opponent. He was fairly certain he was quoting Sun-Tzu or some other great mind but he couldn't recall who.

It was surprising to see the number of students milling about before school. As he looked at them, though, it wasn't so surprising after all. The young men and women were mostly small or underdeveloped; some were just plain over-weight. These were the targets of bullies, come early to avoid their tormenters. Cal knew they'd find some respite – at least for a little while. It was a false sense of security, though; school was not the haven they were hoping for.

A flash of strawberry blonde hair caught his eye as he waited. It tickled a memory in the back of his mind; a memory that took its sweet time to blossom. One of the Cholos, one of the new initiates, had strawberry blonde hair. He wasn't quite sure why he'd thought of that; the gangers weren't noted for rising early. Still, his eyes narrowed and he turned, surprise sliding over his features.

He frowned as he picked Whiskey Summer out from the early crowd. He hadn't expected her; he hadn't expected any Cholos to be at school this early. Despite Rico's attempts, most Cholos dropped out of school by 16. Rico had done it himself.

He worked to catch her eyes; the whole purpose of coming to school was to be seen and reported, after all, but the girl didn't seem overly intent on turning him in. His frown deepened.

Whiskey was turning and moving away from him quickly. He could understand her actions; his reputation and Tomas' assertion that he'd killed Rico would be enough to make many people run. Yet ... she wasn't reaching for her cell phone. She didn't seem to be working to report him. It puzzled him; maybe she was just hoping to get to safety before she called him in.

His mind rejected that almost immediately but it took him a moment to understand why. Little things started jumping out at him; little inconsistencies that made him consider that something might be wrong. Things like the bruise along her face that he could only see when she turned a certain way because she had covered it with makeup. Things like the red, raw marks on her wrists that she was trying desperately to hide underneath the long sleeves of her hoodie. Things like how she wasn't walking quite right, her legs a little too far apart and she seemed to be waddling instead of walking. It rang false in Calix's mind and his gut started speaking to him. Then, when his eyes met hers ... He had never seen anyone look so lost before.

It just wasn't like her. Whiskey was proud of her long, straight, incredibly fine, strawberry-blonde hair that she wore mid-way down her back – but now it seemed matted and greasy. She had a face slightly too long to be elfin with an aristocratic nose that was perfect for her face – neither too large nor to small – but there were smudges on it that looked like small cuts or scratches. Her usually blue, twinkling eyes seemed dull and tired. At only 5'6" weighing in the neighborhood of 105-110lbs she was on the dainty side – but she had never acted like a small girl. She had always come across as somewhat larger than life. She had never been overly demonstrative but she'd always had sass and spunk; now, though, she seemed just a quivering shell. He didn't get fear of his actions in her mannerisms; he read a far darker, more primal fear. Making a quick decision, Calix quickly walked towards her.

"Whiskey," he'd called as he neared her and was shocked when she spun around, a can of pepper spray at the ready.

"Don't come any closer!" She hissed in a sharp southern twang, waving the pepper spray. He noticed her hand was trembling as she held it aloft. His eyes widened as he caught the angry red rings around her suddenly displayed wrists. "I'm not going back. Y'all can't make me."

Calix raised up his hands, palms open and empty and took a step backward. As his eyes drifted around, he could see that they had become the center of attention. This was not what he'd hoped for; he'd wanted to get into school largely unnoticed. Later, in class, the Cholos could know he was here. "I'm not trying to take you anywhere. I just want to talk to you."

"Yeah. Right," she spat; she was fearful and angry but there were also tears in her eyes. The fear he could accept – but where had the anger come from? "Is that what they call it now? Is that what Tomas did to me this weekend? Talk? You thought it was your turn to 'talk'??"

Calix's eyes narrowed and a cold shiver crawled up his spine as his mind processed her words. ' ... what Tomas did to me this weekend... ' Surely it didn't mean what he thought it meant. There was no way Tomas could be that cold and cruel, no way he could have done that to her. "What did Tomas do to you, Whiskey?" Her eyes widened at the cold, dead sound to his voice.

"Y'all know damned well what happened this weekend," the girl cried quietly, looking around wildly. Whiskey was hurting and her soul felt dead. She just wanted to find a single safe haven, a single person she could hide behind. Her spirit dropped when she realized the man before her was the only person she knew. "You know what happens to the new girls. My 'initiation'. Some fucking initiation. Rico told me it was just going to be cleaning and shit, not ... but he's gone now and..." Her eyes widened and her face grew wilder. Another fear, a dangerous fear, now filled her eyes. "Oh my god! You killed Rico. You – you – you..."

Calix, on a hunch, closed the gap to the girl quickly, pulling the pepper spray out of her hands before she could get off more than a short squirt that the young man quickly avoided. He turned her around, arm around her shoulders, and almost force marched her towards the side of the building. It was likely they'd have some privacy there.

"No," he said quietly as he pulled the resisting girl forward. "I didn't. Tomas has been spreading lies. Rico was my cousin. I would never have lifted a finger against him; I certainly wouldn't kill him."

"But – but – Tomas said..." Whiskey started.

"Tomas lied," Calix repeated. "Tomas killed Rico. He wanted to take over the Cholos so he and six of the guys he'd managed to turn against us came and tried to kill Rico and me. I-I-I couldn't save Rico. I tried but..." He shook his head, now was not the time to go down that road. "Anyway, it looks like he succeeded in taking over. Now, what did he do to you this weekend?"

"I told you. He 'initiated' me," Whiskey cried, all resistance fading. She let herself be led to a small alcove on the side of the school. Maybe she'd be lucky; maybe Tomas was right and Calix had gone crazy. Maybe Calix would kill her quickly and quietly. She just wanted it all to end. "He – he – he raped me. He and Torino, his second. All weekend. He – they – I'm – I'm still – still bleeding. Down there. I've washed and scrubbed but the blood won't stop."

The cold crawling up Calix's spine settled into a great big ball of ice in his stomach. He should have known; should have expected this with Rico gone. After all, it was common enough, at least in other gangs. Any girl wanting to join had to be 'initiated' by having sex with some or all of the gang. It was almost a tradition but Rico's father had put an end to it. Rico, as in so many sensible things his father had changed, had kept the ban. It looked like Tomas was resurrecting the 'tradition'. It looked like Tomas was resurrecting a lot of bad shit.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Calix said softly.

"No!" Whiskey blurted before Cal could even finish his sentence. "No. My Daddy'd kill me. He would kill me and my Momma. You don't know him; he'd do it and not even care."

"Whiskey," Calix said softly. "You could die. If you keep bleeding or you get infected, you could die. You could lose your ability to have babies. There's a lot of bad things that could happen."

"Then let me die," the girl cried. She was trembling and her voice turned lost and forlorn. "Kill me; just get it over with. I've wanted to kill myself all weekend but I didn't have the guts to do it. If I die, at least my Momma might survive. Y'all don't know Daddy – he won't care if I die but if I tell him I've been raped, he'll kill me."

"He won't care if you die?" Calix asked, his voice dripping disbelief. He couldn't imagine a father not caring if his child died. He knew such things existed – the internet was awash with bitter stories like that – but he had thought they were only stories. He could not conceive of it. "If he doesn't care if you die, why would he care if you were raped?"

"Because – because..." the girl started, but her voice just drifted off in her tears. She said nothing for a few moments and Calix let her shudder through her sobbing.

"Why, Whiskey?" Calix asked softly, compassionately.

"Because he won't be able to take it, then," she spat between sobs. "He told me that I better not have sex, not ever. He told me that he'd hurt me and Momma if I did. He said that he wanted me virgin when I turned 16 so he could fuck me."

Calix's mind reeled. He'd never faced anything like this before. If his mind wouldn't accept a father not loving his child, it accepted a father forcibly loving his child too much even less. There were stories of fathers taking their daughters like that; as long as it was consensual between the two, he largely ignored it. Hell, Inez had confided that she'd often 'fucked the shit out of' her brother before he'd been killed; it hadn't bothered him and he didn't look down on the woman. Sex between two consenting people – members of the same family or not – he could understand. Forcing your own child, though? It could not exist; it just couldn't. Logically, he knew it did but his heart refused to believe it. He felt the bile rise in his throat as the implications of the girl's words ran through him.

The cold knot in his stomach melted in the fiery depths of his sudden anger. He could not allow something like this to stand. He could NOT allow it. Something had to be done; he had to do something about this.

Calix wasn't a vigilante; he never wanted to be a vigilante. He just wanted – needed, even – to bring some sort of order to his little part of the world. He'd joined the Cholos because they'd given him purpose; when his step-mother left he had been floundering, unable to come to grips with being suddenly alone. Rico had come and pulled him into a new family and he'd taken pride and satisfaction at working hard and furthering their goals.

Yet, inside he knew that he had to have his own goals. He had to change from the boy he'd been to the man he was becoming. He had built himself upon a base of loyalty and responsibility; a sense of duty. At first, it was enough for that duty to be to Rico and the Cholos – but over the past two years it had grown beyond them. It had grown into a sense of loyalty and responsibility to himself and to others around him; friends, acquaintances and even, in certain cases, enemies. He had found, with that sense of duty, that it could not be shirked without great cost. It was why he was hunting Tomas now.

It was also why he was going to visit Whiskey's father and deliver the beating that was long over-due. He didn't know Whiskey's mother – he barely knew Whiskey – but if she was like some of the other women he'd met then she allowed the beatings because she had no other options. She allowed them because the idea of being alone and adrift, of an unknown future, was terrifying.

He wouldn't give her a choice. Whiskey's father was going into the hospital – probably for a long, long stay. The man wouldn't be the wall behind whose evil shadow the woman and her daughter could hide any longer. Calix would take him down – because it was the right thing to do.

Besides, Whiskey was a Cholo. Whiskey was family.

"I'll take you to Doc Ali," Calix said quietly, holding the young girl gently. He pulled her close and hugged her, wanting to protect her from the evil that she already knew far too much about. "He'll know what to do."

Nasser Ali wasn't a doctor. He had stopped being a doctor during his residency when he'd accidentally killed a patient. The man had been a drunk, working wherever he could, when Rico had found him. Rico had made a quiet deal with the man; fix up the Cholos' wounded and the Cholos would take care of him. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

"He-he won't – won't tell my M-m-momma and D-d-daddy?" Whiskey stuttered.

"No," Calix assured the young girl. "He'll just fix you up."

He led the girl to his motorcycle, walking slowly. He hated the idea of making her straddle the bike – he was fairly certain this was going to be very painful for her – but it was the only transportation he had. With a sigh, he helped her on as gently as he could, gritting his teeth when she winced. He climbed on in front of her and started the motor.

So much for letting the Cholos see him. It certainly wasn't the best idea anyway. It was just the only idea Calix could think of. Maybe he'd think of another by the time the doc finished with Whiskey.

Whiskey had been savaged. Doc Ali had needed to stitch up her perineum. He'd also had to add stitches inside her anus and around her vagina. The man could do nothing about the small cuts inside Whiskey's pussy, though he did prescribe a vaginal wash, some antibiotics, a morning after pill (just in case) and some pain meds. Luckily, Rico had also made a deal with some of the pharmacists around Southwest Detroit; Cal had gone to a nearby pharmacy and filled the order.

Later that morning, he drove the girl home using Doc Ali's car. The Doc was going to drive her but Cal had insisted. He talked to her constantly on the ride to her house. He asked her things, inane things; her favorite color, favorite teacher, her favorite boy band. He asked her anything that came to mind – so that he could find the answers to the questions he really wanted to know. So he could find out what time her father came home from work. What time he normally went to bed. What time he worked in the morning. Whether her parents slept in the same room. He even managed to ask in which room her mother and father slept. Yes, he wanted to make sure the girl was safe – but he wanted the answers to his questions, too. He wanted to know where she lived.

Evidently, he hadn't been as careful as he thought. As Whiskey got out of the car, she turned to look at him. "You're going to do something to my Daddy, aren't you?" She asked quietly, staring at his eyes. "You're going to do something bad to him, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to do anything bad to him, Whiskey," Calix replied carefully. He'd considered it off and on throughout the morning. He could see taking vengeance on the man – but what he had been planning wasn't vengeance; it was just bullying and one bully – her father – was enough around Whiskey right now. Still, he'd do what he needed to in order to ensure the father got at least part of what he so richly had coming. "I'm just going to make sure he never does anything bad to you."

Whiskey looked at him, her brows knit. "Why?"

"Why what?" Calix asked, unsure of what she was asking.

"Why are you doing this? Why do you care?"

It was a fair question. He didn't have much of an answer. He turned to look out the windshield, taking a deep breath and blowing it out before responding. "I guess, honestly, because it needs to be done," Cal replied thoughtfully. He turned back to Whiskey. "I guess because what he's done to you and to your mother isn't fair. It goes against the order of the universe, sort of."

"Bad things happen to people all the time," Whiskey remarked quietly. "You can't fix everything, Cal."

"Maybe not," Calix admitted. "I can try to fix my small part of it, though." Half his face turned up in a smile. "Besides, you're a Cholo. No one hurts a Cholos and gets away with it."

"Except other Cholos," the girl said wistfully. She took a deep breath and let it out in a quivering sigh. "I'm not in the Cholos. Not anymore. I ain't never gonna go back to them."

"I'd be disappointed in you if you did," the young man replied earnestly. "If you need anything, though, you let me know. I'll do whatever I can." Calix half-smiled. "You're still a former Cholos and I take care of our own."

Whiskey just nodded and closed the car door. Calix watched her leave until she was within the safety of her house. He snorted in disgust; not that the house was much of a haven.

In the afternoon, he went back to school. His plan remained unchanged. If he couldn't find the Cholos, he needed to bring the Cholos to him. It was a bit of a risk but it was one he needed to take.

His first stop was the office; he'd been out for two and a half weeks – the school was going to wonder where he'd been. Luckily, he had a note; more specifically, a forgery. He'd picked up some paper from the Wyandotte hospital; he couldn't even remember why he took it, really. It was coming in handy now, though. He had a forged letter saying he'd been under doctor's treatment for the past two and a half weeks. The secretary barely looked at it; she only read it long enough to mark his absences as 'excused' in the system. As a matter of fact, he had to draw her attention to the part of the note that got him out of swim for the next two weeks. She just rolled her eyes and made a copy, giving him back the original and telling him to give it to Mrs. Ponart, the swim coach. Honestly, the school administration truly didn't care if the students showed up or not as long as they attended enough to get counted for federal aid. In the last century or so, schools had become a business, after all. Someone had to make money from them.

Calix was still dressed in his usual school attire; bulky sweatshirts and jeans. The cause was different now, though. Before he'd worn them to change his body shape, to make him look different from the Cholos' enforcer of the same name. It was to help him hide in plain sight.

Now, he wore it to hide the armor he had on beneath the sweats. If he was going to confront the Cholos with possibly only a moment's notice, he wanted to be sure his armor was ready. Besides, the school hallway between classes was a zoo; there was simply no way to protect himself at all times from a knife or gun.

The only reason he was able to wear the armor, though, was because the Confederacy had somehow managed to fix his old armor's 'breathing' issue. The new armor had micro-pores in the resin layer – hundreds of them per square inch. The new armor didn't get all that much warmer than his clothes did; it was much more comfortable.

He had also figured out the reason the armor was so effective at a fraction of the width of his version. The Confederacy techs had somehow managed to align the polymer resin within the latex base. They then layered it in segments only a few micron wide; a layer with the polymer resin running north-south, then a layer running east-west, and so on. As force was applied, the dispersal moved outward in the direction of the polymer, layer by layer. He wondered at the machinery the Confederacy had; he had yet to figure out a way he could align the resin while making layers that were that thin.

The Calix walking the halls was not the Calix of old. Always before he'd considered it a good idea to hide in plain sight as best he could; he did everything possible not to draw attention to himself. He was the Cholos' enforcer and he didn't think it was a good idea to advertise the fact in school. Since he wore his helmet during most of his 'enforcement duties' anyway, no one should have more than a vague idea of what he looked like. So, he had always hoped by ducking notice he would hide who he really was from the Bruisers, Humps and Dukes who went to school here.

Now, though, Calix walked normally, confidently. He was through hiding who and what he was. He didn't have the luxury of hiding in plain sight anymore. The timid and scared Calix had been a good mask but it allowed far too many people far too many opportunities to get close. He couldn't allow that with all of the world out to get him.

Speaking of the Cholos, his mission was accomplished before he'd gone from the office to his 5th period; it was a B day, so that meant Library. Nicole Conejo saw him in the halls and rushed off, cell phone in hand. He couldn't help but smile to himself.

Sixth period had him watching the swimmers instead of participating which was good for him, anyway. There could be no hiding in the pool wearing only swimming trunks. It had caused more than one girl to hit on him but that had largely stopped when he'd just ignored them. There were rumors that he was gay, but they'd never stuck. Not that he cared one way or another if they did; he didn't give a damn what people in school thought of him. He just didn't like that the rumors made him a topic of conversation in the first place.

The pool was much larger than most schools in the area – one of Western's claims-to-fame. It was a huge double Olympic but it was ancient – the money for it had been donated by a graduate sometime in what had to be the distant past. Calix had seen old photos of the pool when it had first been built; it had certainly seen better days.

When it was first built, the tiles surrounding the pool had been small, deep, aquatic blue tiles surrounding large white squares. The pool liner had been a soft, airy blue. The new pool in those pictures had looked majestic and inviting. It also hosted a surprisingly good swim team; Western had won several state trophies in swim back in those days. Now, though, the swim program was too expensive; there were no schools nearby that could afford their own pool and the cost of bussing the swim team to away matches became astronomic. Besides, the suburban schools had to worry about coming to the slums for Western's home matches. The swim team had died a painful death many budget cuts ago.

The pool the kids used now, though, looked nothing like the pool in those pictures. Most of the tiles on the deck had faded to a sickly teal and grimy white; at least, the ones that hadn't been completely replaced by a hodge-podge of different colors. The pool liner had faded or been replaced sometime over the years with a dirty off-white color; it also had a dirty ring of some kind near the bottom. Even the sickly teal tiles were cracked in certain areas, making walking on the deck an adventure; unwary students who didn't learn to watch their step would often end up with small cuts on the bottoms of their feet. The school advocated deck shoes when in the pool area – but few in the area had the extra money to buy such luxuries.