Pat's family had moved into the house two days into the New Year. Most families might consider waiting until spring when it would be easier to unload a moving van full of furniture, but not Pat's father. The move to White Oak had taken months of planning and should have gone off without a hitch, except for the weather. The moving truck was full and the doors had been shut when the snow began to fall.

The old house in Millersville was the only home Pat had known for the first fifteen years of his life. He boxed his books, his small collection of movies and the baseball card collection his grandfather had left him. Pat had been eight when the man died, but he still recalled that stern visage and the smell of whiskey on the man's breath.

"Don't you sell those cards, hold on to them," Grandpa had told him. "That collection will be worth a fortune one of these days."

Perhaps, Pat told himself, but he knew nothing about the game of baseball except what he saw on television. But he handled the card collection with care since most of them were enclosed in plastic and some of them were signed. Who the hell was George Herman Ruth anyways?

The McGinty family was Irish in name only Pat's mother used to say. Her family name was Connor and in the family album you could still see some of them wearing kilts in several of the old photographs. But they wore green on St. Pat's Day and that was about it. The McGinty's were Americans now. The past was history, at least since Grandpa had died.

Millersville was just a sprawling lower-middle class neighborhood of boxy little houses and work trucks parked in driveways. Every working trade imaginable lived here and the Saturday morning fix-it days always followed a Friday night of beer drinking and talking.

If Joe the plumber needed some electrical wiring fixed he would talk to Steve the electrician in the next block. When Steve's plumbing backed up he would give Joe a call. And so went the swaps that saved every family a considerable amount of money every year. Pat's father, Thomas McGinty, was a locksmith, the name proudly displayed on the side of his work van.

Fortune had smiled on Thomas. He had a good wife, two sons, a daughter, and a growing pile of money in the bank. The economy might be tight but there was always work for someone who was good with his hands, and especially a locksmith. Oh the stories he could tell, and he often did after a few beers. People did the dumbest things and his business depended on it.

The advent of the local hardware megastores allowed people to think that changing a lock was easy as pie, until it didn't work. It seems as if no one could read the directions printed in three foreign languages and bad English. What did they expect from Chinese made goods?

But Tom had managed to save a good deal which allowed him to take on a partner and open a storefront business in the White Oak community. The area they would serve encompassed much of the county and so the commute to the store wasn't that hard unless the weather was bad. By the second winter Tom had made his decision, they would move closer to his job.

The new house was situated in a pleasant neighborhood called Woodlake. Only ten years old, it had lovely tree lined streets amid gently rolling hills. The house was big enough for the kids to each have their own room, and there were three bathrooms ... Thank God. Just before Christmas the papers were signed and Tom put his Millersville house on the market. Things were looking up.

To Pat, the move in the middle of a school year was an inconvenience. His little brother was in sixth grade, his sister in fourth. Changing elementary schools seemed a whole lot easier than entering a new high school. New faces, new challenges, and with past experience Pat knew it wouldn't all be good.

The high school in White Oak had a reputation. The growing suburban sprawl was slowing encompassing the rural folk and not all of them were happy about it. WOHS was a mix of farm boys and suburban kids so there was bound to be some conflict. But Pat had a good mind, good grades, and he knew it would only take time and new friends to fit in.

The new house sat on a corner lot which gave it a good view and higher taxes, but then there were the trees. Millersville had been a neighborhood of small lawns and few old growth trees, just the small maples everyone seemed to have in the yard. White Oak lived up to its name and the neighborhood planners had left thousands of old growth trees in scattered clusters for the residents to enjoy.

The McGinty house was backed into a corner of just such a screen of trees. It sat on a hill at the edge of some woods which led down to the watershed stream that fed the creek which tumbled into the White Oak River. There were plenty of trees in Woodlake, just no lake, at least none that Pat had seen. All that was to say that the new backyard was in shade most of the time, the grass was sparse, and the leaves piled in drifts which would have to be raked and bagged after the snows departed.

Even as Pat stood in the falling snow and gazed at the woods he knew there was adventure out there, it only waited for spring to be discovered. That didn't mean there wouldn't be any fun this winter. They could still go sledding or watch the cars slip and slide as they tried to make it up the hill in front of the house.

The guys from Mayflower Moving couldn't back the truck into the driveway so they had to park in the street. A light snow was still falling so Pat and his brother Mike shoveled a wide path up the driveway through the powder to the back doors onto the porch. The movers were unhappy about the weather, but grateful when Pat's mother made them hot chocolate.

It took four hours to empty the truck and then the family set to work emptying boxes and sorting their possessions. Nothing was broken, and the new house had more closets and storage space so it only took two days to sort through the mess. The time didn't matter as school would be closed all week due to the weather.

White Oak High School was about six miles from the house, just a little too far to reach on a bicycle. Pat was delighted to discover that the school bus stopped right on his corner, and that meant he could wait for it in the shelter of the carport when it rained.

On the first day school was back in session eight kids gathered on the corner to wait for the bus. Pat joined the group just as the bus arrived which didn't allow him any time for introductions. The driver was a middle aged woman with a no nonsense attitude and a voice that could grate hard cheese.

"Hurry up ... you're letting all the heat out of my bus."

At her urging Pat scrambled aboard and threw himself down in the nearest empty seat. The boy beside him had already been on the bus and yet he was swaddled in warm clothing which included a long scarf wrapped around his neck. The boy closed the book he had been reading and smiled at Pat, exposing a mouthful of braces on his teeth.

"New guy, huh?"

"Pat. We just moved here."

"Barry. I'm a sophomore." It was hard to tell the boy's age with all that clothing, but perhaps he was sixteen.

"Still a freshman," Pat said. "Aren't you burning up in all those clothes?"

"Not really, I hate the cold ... I wish we lived in Florida."

"What are you reading?" Pat asked.

"Moliere, The Misanthrope," Barry replied.

"Damn ... what class is that for?"

"This isn't classwork, just a bit of fun. I like reading plays, and this is great comedy."

Pat didn't read much beyond his schoolwork and most of the books he owned had been his grandfather's. Barry was obviously smart, a geek in the social order of things in most high schools. But at least Pat knew who Moliere was while many others wouldn't.

"Do you make a habit of reading seventeenth century French playwrights?" Pat asked.

"Oh ... you know who he is? That's refreshing," Barry said. "I doubt if anyone else on the bus knows the name."

"I know the name, Barry, but don't give me any credit beyond that."

"And honest too ... I think I like you already."

White Oak High School looked like every other school the county had built in the last thirty years. Beige colored brick and lots of tinted glass, a look so boring that most of the students ignored it. Pat followed Barry out of the bus and up the sidewalk covered in salt and sand to the front doors of the building.

"The office is up that hallway to the right," Barry said. "Ask for Mrs. Britten when you get to the counter."

"Is she the principal?" Pat asked.

"No, she's the head counselor ... and my aunt. I have second period lunch so maybe I'll see you there." Barry hefted his backpack and made off down the hallway leaving Pat standing amid a throng of students.

The office was plainly marked and Pat was told to take a seat until Mrs. Britten came for him. He sat in the row of uncomfortable plastic chairs against the wall and listened to the bustle and hum of the students passing along out in the hallway. A bell rang for about five seconds and the hum began to fade. That's when two girls walked in and immediately took a seat several chairs away.

"Marsha is going to be so pissed off at me," One of them said.

"Who cares what that bitch thinks?" The other replied. "I told you not to go out with her brother."

"Yeah ... well, he was good, and I mean very good."

The girls looked down the wall at Pat who did his best to seem oblivious to their conversation. One of the girls was in a cheerleader outfit which seemed absurd in this cold weather. The other carried a long black leather coat, probably to hide the very short skirt she was wearing. These two were trouble, Pat knew the type.

A man came out of an office on one side of the room and motioned for the two girls to follow him. They went behind the counter and into the office. The guy shut the door and Pat could see the nameplate quite clearly. "Mr. Alan Roberts, Vice-Principal" it announced. Yes, those girls were in trouble.

"Patrick McGinty?" A voice asked, and Pat turned to see a woman had approached from the other direction.

He stood up and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Hello, I'm Mrs. Britten, won't you follow me."

She led him out of the main office and down a narrow hallway to her personal office where she pointed him towards a seat. Pat waited for her to sit behind her desk and then he sat down.

"Welcome to White Oak High School," She said, settling herself in and opening a folder on her desk. She sorted through a few papers and then pulled one out. "I have your transcript here, and you have a very impressive track record.

"I know it's difficult to change schools in the middle of a year, but we only have about three hundred and twenty freshmen here so I think you will assimilate rather well. Do you have any concerns?"

"No ma'am, I already made a friend on the bus this morning. That was Barry, your nephew."

Mrs. Britten smiled. "Barry is a joy but a little bit too intellectual for his own good. He's President of the debating team and plays chess. Do you have any extracurricular interests?"

"I don't know what you have to offer, but I like to draw in my spare time," Pat said.

"We have a wonderful art teacher, Miss Caruthers. But you won't have room for that subject until the fall semester. I'm sure Barry would enjoy teaching you how to play chess."

Pat smiled in return. "Now why doesn't that surprise me? I'm not his intellectual equal, Mrs. Britten, but I appreciate smart people ... we'll get along."

"Fine, he needs some new friends. So, Patrick, here is your class schedule. Most of the freshmen classes are in the north wing. You can always follow the green stripe on the wall to find your way there."

She handed over the schedule and gave Pat a few moments to look it over. "Any questions?" She asked.

"Not yet ... I'll let you know," Pat said.

"My door is always open, have a great day."

Pat walked back into the hallway just as the bell rang again, a longer interlude this time. He looked at the wall and across the top above the lockers he saw the stripes. Gold and green, the school's colors. But the green stripe had chevrons painted on it every ten feet or so, pointing the way for the freshmen students without being too obvious.

He made two right turns and a left before finding Room N26. He had already missed going to his homeroom because of Mrs. Britten, but he would catch up with that tomorrow. This was to be his first period Social Studies class, which according to his schedule began at 8:36 ... about four minutes ago. Pat looked through the narrow window in the door and knocked when he saw a man sitting at the desk talking to the students.

This would be Mr. Carlyle, and he motioned Pat to come on in.

"You would be Mr. McGinty?" Carlyle asked.

"Yes sir. I just left Mrs. Britten's office."

"That's just fine. Take a seat please, Patrick."

Pat turned to begin the long walk down the aisle to an empty desk in the fifth row which gave him his first real look at his classmates. He could see everyone looking at him and so he smiled self-consciously, a little embarrassed at the attention. The room was fairly divided between the sexes and there was a scattering of minorities in the mix.

Several black girls, one black boy. An Asian face or two, several blonds, a red-headed boy. They came in all shapes and sizes, well dressed and otherwise. Pat slid into his seat with a sigh as Carlyle resumed his talk.

"I want all of you to start reading the newspaper. You don't have to fight your parents for it at the breakfast table, but let them know you need to look through it when you get home. Those of you who have access to a computer can find the pages posted on the web. But I want you to read the news because it will form the basis of our current events discussions this semester.

"Social studies encompass a whole range of subjects that matter to our society. National and local politics, gang activity and crime, economic trends and on occasion even professional sports. This is an introductory class on the subject so we will look at the whole spectrum and discuss its relevance to our way of life. This is a class about humanity and the way we as people relate to one another and the world around us.

"I have here a one page questionnaire about the structure of government. Please take the time to answer each question and print your answers carefully. There will be no grade. This is not a test. I would just like to see how many of you know about local politics. Considering we live right outside our nation's capital much of the news we read may affect the rest of the country."

Carlyle handed out pages to the front rows and those students took one and passed the others over their shoulder. Pat received his and passed back the last two copies to the boys behind him. There were only twelve questions, the first being: "Who is the current President of the United States."

Pat ended up in the cafeteria at noon, the second lunch period. He'd told his mother that he might start bringing lunch in a bag if the food was terrible. One look around at the tables showed him that most of the students were eating lunches brought from home which was not a good sign. He stood in line, got a tray and took his chances.

The room was quickly filling as Pat stood against the wall and was looking around for a place to sit when he spotted Barry. In most schools the classes sat together, but Pat didn't know any of the freshmen yet. There were only two others at Barry's table and so he headed that way.

Barry smiled when he saw Pat and pointed at a seat. "There you are," Barry said, "How is the day going?"

"Fine," Pat said, setting his tray on the table.

"Have you got Carlyle for Social Studies?"

"Yes ... but the class seems pretty lame so far. He asked us who was President this morning."

Barry laughed. "I imagine some people don't know. Just wait until he gets around to his dysfunctional society lecture, then you'll find out what an opinionated bastard he really is."

"Oh?" Pat replied.

"Never mind. He's right wing and I'm left, we never agreed on anything. So that's Trent down there with his face in a book. That's why he always ends up with food on his shirt."

Pat looked at the curly headed blond boy and sure enough there was a food stain on the front of his shirt.

"And this is Arthur, our champion chess player," Barry said.

Arthur looked up from what he was doing and gave a brief nod. It was then that Pat noticed the tiny chess set sitting beside the lunch tray.

"He's working out a defense for the Benko Gambit," Barry said. "Sorry, that's a very complicated chess strategy I couldn't begin to explain."

"Don't be sorry, I'm not offended by things I don't understand, they just make life interesting," Pat said.

Arthur smiled. "I like that."

"So how long have you been in Woodlake?" Barry asked.

"We just moved in last week. The bus stops right on the corner in front of the house," Pat said.

"You live in the Hudson house?"

"I think that's who sold it. It's the McGinty house now."

Barry smiled and nodded. "Ever wonder why they call it Woodlake?"

"Trees, water ... I know there's a stream back in the woods behind our house, but where's the lake?"

"Oh, it's back there ... .way back in the woods."

"Cool," Pat said.

"Not cool," Barry replied. "The property belongs to the Parsons family and so does the lake. They used to own all the land in the area but sold a parcel of it to the developers for the Woodlake neighborhood. You don't want to go anywhere near that lake or the old house."

"What's so special about the lake?"

"People drown there ... it's haunted."

Pat laughed. "There is no such thing as a haunted lake, that's just superstition."

"Tell that to Mr. Hudson ... his daughter drowned in that lake."

Pat was stunned, but he could tell Barry enjoyed imparting the news.

"What happened?" Pat finally asked.

"No one really knows. She went swimming with her friends and just disappeared. The fire department searched the lake and couldn't find her body or anything, and then the following day she just floated to the surface without a mark on her. No one was in the house that weekend and old man Parsons said he didn't know a thing."

"The house is near the lake?" Pat asked.

"Right on the water. It used to be a mill where they ground wheat to make flour in the 1800's. But the Parsons family bought the property and gutted the mill to make a house out of it. The creek was dammed to run the mill and that created the lake. We can go take a look at it if you want."

"I thought you were superstitious?" Pat said.

"Me? No, I just like the story about the place being haunted. They say that the mill owners used to have a few black slaves and their families working the place before the Civil War. They were killed when the war started and their bodies were dumped in the lake."

"I don't believe that, slaves were considered valuable property, why would anyone kill them?" Pat asked.

"Don't know, that's just how the story goes. But that legend has been around for over a hundred fifty years. I imagine it's been embellished a little. Parsons hates the stories, I can tell you that much. Jenny Hudson drowned last summer and I saw Parsons on the news ranting about trespassers on his property."

"So we shouldn't go up there, that would be trespassing," Pat said.

"It's okay. We just have to make sure their car is gone before we get too close to the house."

"Why do you want to go up there, Barry?"

"It's a dramatic story, almost literary with its tragic consequences. Jenny was a student at this school when she died, don't you catch the irony in all this?"

"It's cold, there's snow on the ground and you want to go running off into the woods for a picnic so I can freeze my balls off ... that's ironic."

"Why so?" Barry asked.

"Because I thought you were smart and this sounds crazy," Pat said.

"We could wait for spring?" Barry suggested. "You're not going to eat that broccoli are you? It looks terrible."

Pat brought his bag lunch the following day, and every day thereafter. Sitting with the geeks for lunch didn't bother him. He wasn't tuned in to the social scene here anyways. The cheerleader and the slut he'd seen in the office sat with the jocks across the room, about what he expected from girls like that. Barry's table was quiet and it was always just the four of them.

Trent acted a bit weird, but then Pat discovered the boy had Tourette's syndrome and took medication to control his symptoms. He did give the occasional twitch which is how the food always ended up on his clothes, but he made no apologies for his condition.

Arthur was deeply introverted, but he still managed to share little secret whispers with Trent that made the boy laugh. Pat could tell they were close friends, and Barry confirmed that a few weeks later.

He leaned across the table and grinned. "They act like two lovers, don't they?"

Lovers? That had never occurred to him so Pat looked down the table where Arthur and Trent were giggling about something.

"Um ... they have a relationship?" Pat asked.

Barry nodded. "Since sixth grade. Look at them ... they were made for one another. You don't suppose they could find girlfriends, do you? At least they have something that makes them happy. You aren't homophobic, are you?"

"Me? No way."

"I'm still a virgin," Barry said. "I don't think about sex."

Pat wanted to laugh, but it would offend Barry if he did, the boy was being serious.

"Now you want me to admit I don't have any experience so we can feel equally miserable," Pat said.

"Something like that, but I think the girls would chase you all over the school if you allowed. Look at you ... you're a handsome guy in a sort of brutal Irish way."

Now Pat did laugh. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Some girls like tall boys and you must be at least six-two," Barry said. "Then the dark wavy hair and green eyes ought to bring them running if you gave it half a chance. Face it, Patrick, you're a chick magnet."

"I'm the new guy and they're not interested in breaking me in," Pat said.

"Tall thin guys with size twelve feet usually have other large parts, they know that. That ought to be your ticket right there."

"Okay, enough about this. I am not going to date the sluts or cheerleaders just to get laid. All good things happen in time so what's the hurry?"

"The clock is ticking and soon you'll be sixteen, drive a car with a large backseat and have no plans to make that leap into manhood." Barry laughed. "We're pathetic I tell you ... simply pathetic."

Maybe Barry was right, but then misery loves company and this was all part of the friendship. But Pat now looked at Trent and Arthur in a different way. Perhaps they were gay but that was obscured behind the geek mask they each wore. They were lucky.

The month of March arrived and with it came spring break. By some perverse sense of timing, the school board gave them a week off to vacation while there were still several inches of slushy snow on the ground. At least the coldest days of winter were past and Easter was just three weeks ahead.

Barry lived on the south side of Woodlake in one of the very first homes built in the neighborhood. The strip shopping center was only a block away with its drugstore, barbershop, hardware store and the ever popular Jewish delicatessen. Kids around the neighborhood flocked here because in the basement of the center was a bowling alley with arcade games.

Rather than stay home and endure parents and siblings, Pat arranged to spend some more time with Barry, and they planned to meet up at the bowling lanes.

"You should arrange to spend Friday night at my house," Barry said. "I have a spare bed in my room and my father just bought a widescreen HD television, we could watch movies all night if we wanted."

"That works," Pat said, hoping they wouldn't be watching classic foreign films with subtitles. Barry seemed like the kind who would be attracted to such things. "I'll bring some of my DVD's."

The bowling alley was packed at ten-thirty in the morning. Pat had only been in there once on a Saturday afternoon and discovered it was the local hangout. There was a line four deep at each of the video games which attracted most of the younger crowd. The older teenagers were at the other end of the basement hanging around the snack bar or bowling.

Barry showed no interest in bowling and Pat had only done it a few times on family outings. They stood at the bottom of the stairs and gazed out at the crowd for a few minutes.

"Come on, let me show you something," Barry said.

He led Pat through the maze to a set of double doors on the far end of the bowling lanes. It took a moment after they entered the room to realize what he was looking at but Pat smiled.

"Cool, you like to race?"

"I do," Barry said.

There was a counter near the door with a man sitting on a stool in front of a wall of cubbyholes. Barry shook the guy's hand and introduced Pat.

"Mr. Long, this is my friend Pat."

Long smiled and turned to the cubbies behind him, reaching down to pull out a miniature race car and hand it to Barry.

"Thank you," Barry said. He gave the man a ten dollar bill and turned away towards the tracks. "He doesn't talk, but he hears just fine," Barry explained. "So, have you ever seen cars like this before?"

His little race car was made with a blue plastic finish and had wide racing tires about two inches in diameter. The car was only about twelve inches long but it was covered with tiny decals like the real cars Pat had seen in the NASCAR races on television.

"I built this baby from a kit last year," Barry said.

"They keep it here for you?" Pat asked.

"Yup, my own little garage. Only ten dollars to race for two hours, that's a bargain. I usually run it for a few hours every weekend. Some of these guys spend all day in here."

There were at least a dozen guys and two young ladies with their own cars. The youngest appeared to be about ten, the others ranged into adulthood. Pat looked at the track which had eight lanes in a swooping bed that travelled around the room and back to the finish line. The cars sat above a slot which held them firmly on the track. Otherwise they would probably go flying off into the walls.

This was a new dimension of Barry, but Pat shouldn't be surprised. In the past two months Barry had proven to be a good friend. For every strange characteristic he displayed there were things like this that proved he was just a normal active kid at heart.

Barry pulled a numbered card from a box sitting beside the track and set his car on a rail with the card beside it.

"My position, we won't have long to wait," He said, looking at the other racers. "Oh great, Berger is here."

He motioned Pat to one end of the track so they could watch the races.

"Who is Berger?" Pat asked.

"That little brat down there in the red shirt. He's too aggressive and always manages to cause trouble. I thought Mr. Long had kicked him out for a month."

Pat looked at the kid Berry had indicated. He was small but at least fourteen. The boy was twisting and turning his body as his little car raced around the track in slot number six. As Pat watched Berger's car swung around a corner too fast and nicked the tail end of another car which pushed it out of the slot and into the wall. Berger seemed thrilled with his maneuver.

"Watch yourself, Berger boy," One of the adults said, walking over to retrieve his car. The man checked it out and shrugged when he didn't see any damage. But he walked away from the track and another guy took his place at the controller.

"We're up next," Barry said, and a few minutes later another guy quit the track. Barry picked up his car and placed it in slot number seven. He smiled and showed Pat how the controls worked. Then he punched a button which allowed the small electric motor to pull a charge from the slot and the car took off.

The only control a driver had over the car was speed and braking, otherwise the steering was maintained by the slot in the track. Barry took the first lap slowly, braking his car every now and then but revving the motor which allowed the wheels to spin.

"Heats up the tires for better traction," Barry explained.

"Let's call a race," The girl next to Barry said. "Three laps."

All the drivers brought their cars around to the white line painted across the track and stopped them. When everyone was lined up she punched a button on the wall of the track and a digital counter lit up out in the center. The unit had a stoplight on top and it showed red, then yellow and finally green as the race started.

The cars all spun wheels as they took off from the starting line and hurtled towards the far turn. Pat watched the little blue car take the turn and loop around the outside towards the far wall. Berger's little red car was only inches behind. The only way to win a race like this was to maintain traction, there was no changing of lanes and everyone had the same size motor.

Berger's little car skidded a bit on the far loop, fishtailing the rear end and losing traction. Barry had maintained his speed and was now in third place. They flashed past the starting line and went for the second lap. Pat was beginning to see that Barry had a strategy.

The other drivers were getting excited and took the turns just a little too fast to keep their wheels aligned. Another car skidded and now Barry was in second place with Berger right on his tail. Side by side they took the straightaway and Barry eased off a little on the turn while Berger goosed the throttle.

Pat didn't see how he did it, but Berger's car swung far enough to tap Barry's car and send it spinning out of control. It jumped the slot and slammed into the wall.

"Hah, got you asshole," Berger yelled, and then the track suddenly went dead.

Berger quickly turned around and looked up at Mr. Long who had come up behind him with a red card in his hand. The boy didn't look the least bit apologetic as he dropped the controller on the floor, grabbed his car and stalked away towards the doors.

Barry was examining his car and Pat could see that the casing was cracked. He carried the car back to the counter as Mr. Long turned the track back on. Long looked sad and nodded at Barry.

"I'll pick it up later, Mr. Long, it won't be that hard to fix," He said. Long nodded and handed Barry a green card. "Thank you," Barry said, and slid the card in his pocket. They pushed through the doors into the bowling alley and Barry looked around.

"What was all that?" Pat asked.

"Mr. Long laid a red card on Berger so he's banned for a week. You don't cuss in front of Mr. Long and swearing at another driver is forbidden. The green card gives me free races. But now I wonder where Berger went, he's the asshole."

"Aye, don't be frettin' yourself about the little bastard, you could kick his runty little ass all the way to Dublin," Pat said in a thick Irish brogue. "My grandfather used to talk like that, he was a scrapper."

They took the back stairs out into the rear parking lot behind the shops. This would leave them closer to Barry's house. But Berger had figured this was the way they would leave the bowling alley and he was waiting for them with three of his friends.

Barry was slammed with a slushy snowball the minute he stepped through the door.

"Aw, shit," Barry yelped and several more balls of ice came his way. Pat stepped outside and batted the snowballs into oblivion with his hands. Berger and one of his friends rushed towards Barry with the intention of doing harm when Pat stepped in the way.

Both boys were a foot shorter and a few pounds lighter, but that wasn't the issue. Pat was a scrapper, lessons well learned from his days in middle school. His hands went out and grabbed the jacket of each boy and violently pulled them together. The sound of two skulls colliding bounced off the walls of the building and both boys went down in the slush.

Pat looked up at the other two boys who started to back away. "Come on ... I got some whup-ass for you too," He yelled, but they turned and ran.

Berger and the other fool were stunned, lying in the gutter as the run off from the parking lot wet their clothes.

"Get up," Pat yelled. "If I see your faces at school this fall I'm going to tell everyone what a couple of pussies you are ... now get out of here."

Berger and the other boy scrambled away and then began to run. Another win for the Irish, Pat thought.

Barry hadn't said a word as Pat stood up to the pint sized bullies.

"You okay?" Pat asked.

"Yeah ... I'm just not a violent person by nature," Barry replied.

"You're not Irish. We've been kicked around so much that it's second nature to fight back."

"I was scared," Barry said.

Pat threw an arm around Barry's shoulder. "You don't need to worry. McGinty's the name and killin's me game." The line delivered in that brogue once again.

Barry smiled. "Maybe you ought to teach me how to talk like that."

"What I ought to teach you is how to fight," Pat replied.

"No way ... but thanks, I need a friend like you."

The look in Barry's eyes was puzzling. It was so intense that Pat could swear he thought the boy was going to kiss him. No, that wouldn't happen.


On to Chapter Two

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