flashback

o n e

Danyelle

I think I used to be the only one who knew they existed. The kids in the alley. Besides themselves and I, no one in the whole of Studebaker knew life existed, besides the rats and roaches, in the dark alley between Southgate and Edgewood Avenue. Maybe someone else did know, but just didn't care, or maybe they just couldn't put together the puzzle of history behind the kids in the alley as well as I could. Either way, they weren't discovered until I stumbled upon them that day.

The kids in the alley changed my life. They changed thy way I viewed things, especially my own town of Studebaker. I now have a jaundiced view of Cottondale and its denizens. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's rewind a few months back to where the story truly begins...

Tuesday

When I met the kids in the alley I was in the 9th grade. I had no friends. My dyslexia caused me to be known throughout the whole Ruby Studebaker High School as the girl who couldn't read. I usually paid no attention in class and spent most of my time gazing out windows. But in English, I spent most of my time trying to decipher the code of words in The Scarlet Letter while my classmates taunted and jeered and my teacher's face was contorted in disgust and disdain. At the bell, I usually shot out of that wretched building and began to walk home. About halfway, I would stop on the sidewalk and wonder if my mom would even be home. Lawyer work was draining family time. My dad played baseball overseas, so I could barely see him anyway. Deciding that no one would be home, I headed straight for the dark alley between Southgate and Edgewood. I went to the alley each time I had a rough day at school. Which was everyday. I headed down the alley and sat on top of a pile of old cardboard boxes that had been dumped there. I could see everything on my street from there, or sometimes I would flatten a cardboard box on the ground by the stairwell to the old deli and labor over my homework.

I had lived in Studebaker, Cottondale all my life. I was born there, and I thought I would probably never leave there. Studebaker was a large town. In fact, it was more like a city on its own. Cottondale was divided into 5 major towns and 3 minor ones. Studebaker was the prominent major town. Even though Studebaker was a large city, everyone knew everyone, and rumors spread fast. I was used to living here, and by three years old I could make my way from home, all the way to the National Bank on the other end of town by public transportation all by myself. That's the way it always had been. In the awkwardness of my heart, I loved where I lived and never wanted to imagine moving. I never did imagine moving.

Joe's deli was located at the end of the alley. When I was little, it was a cool place. It used to have bright yellow and red awning. But after Joe (an elderly man who was the owner of the store) died, the deli was rejected and no one even bothered to go down there anymore. I remembered Joe. He was an Italian man with thick white hair covering his head and a triangular beard. He had gotten rich off of business in Studebaker, and had three sons who were in high school. They all went away to college, but back in senior year of high school, they always threw wild parties every Saturday night when Joe went to the casino. One time, Joe came home early and found them partying with their friends. I don't know what happened to them, but some people say Old Joe joined in the fun. I think Joe's sons started that rumor. Personally, I think Joe gave them all a good thumping, which is why they never had parties much after that, except for Super Bowl. Joe didn't play. He made sure his sons, even though their mother didn't live with them because of the divorce, got a good education. Through all that partying, they all got straight A's and were shipped off to undergrad school in Ivy Leagues right after college. But Joe had a sweet spot, too. Figuratively, and literally. He always smelt of peppermint. Figuratively speaking, another one time, I ordered a sandwich but realized I left my wallet in school after he had already made it. I apologized for forcing him to go through all the trouble, but he gave it to me free. The next day, I returned with the $3.50 for Old Joe. "Here," I had said, handing him the money. "For the sandwich," I said. Joe turned his gaze to me, his gray eyes stern behind his bushy white eyebrows. "What sandwich?" he had said, winking. And after that we were best buds. His eldest son, who was working the register, didn't look so happy. But I didn't care, he was a jerk anyway, and he was probably the one who got the worst thumping at the Super Bowl party.