Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,36

rim of the tire, or throwing into the midst of screaming drill team girls by mistake.

Ralph was cracking up, which didn’t help Frankie’s mood.

After a few tosses his little sister, Madeleine, ran up to him. As usual, her clothes were decorated with Magic Marker designs—spirals, mazes, scary faces. She had a fistful of candy canes and her face was painted blue and gold. There was cascarón glitter and confetti in her hair.

“Share your tickets, Frankie,” she demanded.

“Get lost, Brat,” he growled.

Madeleine held her ground. “Dad said they were for both of us. He told you to share.”

Frankie jumped toward her and faked throwing the football at her. She squealed and ducked her head.

Mrs. Weems, normally an innocuous soul, said, “Now, Franklin—”

“I told you to get lost,” Frankie yelled at his sister.

“You can’t touch me anymore!” Madeleine’s chin was trembling. “Dad said—”

She never got to finish her sentence.

Frankie grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and marched her away.

“You want to play more games, Brat?” Frankie’s face was bright red. “You want the apple dunk? Huh?”

She tried to fight him off, but he dragged her over to the tin washtub. Then he pushed her head underwater.

“Frankie,” Ralph said. “Stop.”

Frankie brought Madeleine up again, screaming and sputtering.

Mrs. Weems shouted, “Stop it!”

“You didn’t get an apple, Brat?” Frankie said. “Gee, I’m sorry.”

He shoved Madeleine under again. That’s when Ralph and Mrs. Weems and I all got into the act.

Ralph pulled Madeleine away from Frankie while Mrs. Weems and I tried to restrain him, but Frankie had the weight advantage. He elbowed me in the gut, then pushed poor Mrs. Weems a little too hard. She stumbled backward.

“Stay off me!” he yelled.

“Franklin White!” Mrs. Weems got to her feet, furious, and slapped him hard across the face.

Frankie looked stunned. Then his face blanched. I was pretty sure he was about to kill our English teacher when a deep voice said, “Franklin.”

Guy White stood behind us.

Frankie’s shoulders hunched. He blinked hard, like a dog who expects a beating.

Madeleine was kneeling in the grass, crying and coughing up water, her face paint smeared. She got to her feet, but she didn’t run to Daddy. Instead, she yanked her wrist free of Ralph’s hand and took off into the crowd. Her father paid no attention.

His eyes bored into his son.

“Come with me,” Mr. White told Frankie.

“I’m with my friends,” Frankie mumbled. “I don’t want to.”

I couldn’t tell which was stronger in Frankie’s voice—hate or fear.

“Now,” Mr. White said calmly.

“Hey, Frankie,” Ralph said. “It’s cool. We’ll catch you later.”

Mr. White glanced at Ralph, appraising him. Maybe he recognized that Ralph was letting Frankie save face. Maybe, in a cold way, he even appreciated that.

Frankie’s fists clenched. He planted his feet, trying to ignore his father’s order. But it was like watching a time-lapse movie—a granite hillside being slowly and mercilessly eroded by the sun and the wind. Finally Mr. White pointed toward the parking lot, and Frankie followed his father off the playing field. We didn’t see them or Madeleine again that night. Soon, I was much more interested in my girlfriend and Ralph’s tequila, and I stopped thinking about the incident with the Whites.

But looking back on it, I felt sorry for Madeleine.

I tried to imagine what it would be like living with two men like her father and brother, being kid sister to Frankie White, who could bring out the violent side in anyone, even a gentle middle-aged English teacher.

• • •

RALPH, MADELEINE AND I FOLLOWED THE redheaded thug into the grounds of Mission San José.

It was a cold Saturday evening, too late and overcast for much of a crowd. The convento was empty except for an elderly couple studying a tourist brochure. Ancient huisache trees lay flat against the ground and the foundations of ruined buildings made weird geometry in the grass. Along the fort walls, oak doors were fastened shut, as if the Indians who’d lived there two hundred years before were still inside, cooking dinner or stumbling through vespers prayers in their strange new Spanish language.

Mr. Thug toted his taco bag toward the tiendita—a tiny souvenir shop in one of the Indian apartments. The sign out front promised religious memorabilia and ice-cold bottled water. He went inside.

Ralph stopped. He stared at the shop door, his hand in the pocket of his new leather jacket where a borrowed .38 waited.

Guy White’s manservant had taken one look at Ralph, then given him a tough-guy outfit—black jeans, leather jacket, boots. Me, I got a silk