Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jeremy's mother was not happy to be called into school on a Tuesday morning, right in the middle of her shift. Her manager had been reluctant to let her off– and she hoped she wasn’t going to be subject to another pay cut. It was already a painful stretch just to afford rent in the apartment above the laundromat.

She entered the office building of the elementary school and was invited into the principal’s office. Jeremy was waiting on a plastic chair just outside, eyes glued to the floor, scuffing his shoes against the dingy tile. Judy smoothed back her hair the best she could and entered the office, where a man just a bit too large for his desk chair explained what had happened– complete with sweeping gestures that only narrowly spared the pencil tin balanced on the edge of his desk.

She tried not to be too annoyed with her son. It wasn't as if she’d hadn’t been a regular here, what with her boys’ notorious behavior. Of course he’d follow in his big brothers’ footsteps. But she’d be lying if she hadn’t hoped that Jeremy would be a little easier than the others.

He’d made it a total of forty-five minutes at school that morning before his meltdown.

The first grade class had been doing an art project.

Papers and crayons and sticker sheets had been passed around, and at first the whole class seemed happy to scribble away at their cards.

Her son had crumpled his paper into a ball and pitched it at the back of another kid’s head, snapped his crayons, and tried to tear up the card of the girl next to him.

Judy could hear him sniffling loudly outside in the hall.

Apparently, it was Father’s Day.

Jeremy hated Rory.

“Why are your teeth so big?”

“I dunno. Why is your face so dumb?”

“I was just saying.” Rory scrunched his nose at him. “And my face is not dumb. Yours is. You got rabbit teeth and a black eye.”

“I don’t got a black eye.”

“Not yet, you don’t.”

Jeremy ran, but Rory was faster.

Jeremy squeezed himself past his brothers to catch a glimpse of the TV. The couch was too full of limbs and little bowls of half-burnt popcorn (because Greg insisted on heating it himself and screwed it up.)

The Red Sox were playing tonight.

He curled up against the side of the couch, trying to hear the announcer over his brothers’ running commentary. He could still make out the telltale sound of a bat hitting a ball, and watched it soar over the field. The batter dropped the bat and ran.

Jeremy held his breath. He imagined what it would feel like, to run that fast, cleats digging into the dirt, sending it up in plumes as his skidded past not one, not two, but three bases. Bolting for home plate as the opposing team’s catcher took off after him, winding his arm back to throw.

Sliding home in a swirl of red dust. Even from the other side of the screen, he could feel the anticipation, and then the excitement of the crowd.

Home run.

Cheering.

The batter raised his hands in victory.

When the teams switched out, his teammates swarmed him. Back slaps and hugs and playful knocks to the head, just like some of the boys at school did with their friends. Sort of like his brothers did to him, but less patronizing and more affectionate.

He pulled his knees to his chest, eyes wide.

“I wanna do that,” he breathed.

The Red Sox won the game.

He stuffed the paperbound book into his bag, not caring when the cover tore a bit. The book was stupid. 

Reading was stupid.

He’d kind of hoped this book would be okay, since it was supposed to be about talking animals taking over a farm and harassing the farmer (even if it was supposed to all be a fancypants metaphor.)

It wasn’t.

He’d still put reading the book off. Spent the class staring at the same page, while his classmates effortlessly flipped through the chapter, pages turning like whispers just behind him. 

He’d squinted at the tiny, squiggly letters until his eyes ached.

On…ly. Only. Only old Benjamin pro…fessed. Professed. Only old Benjamin professed to rem..rem…em…remember every detail of… his long life… and to know that… that things had nev…er…been, nor… nor? Nor ever…could be …much better or much worse… hunger, hard…ship. Hardship? – Frick, who cares what boats have to do with it– and… dis...app..pointment. Disappointment… being… so he said, the…un… alter… able… law of… life.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He slung his battered backpack over his shoulder and ducked through the crowd of kids leaving the classroom before Mrs. Peterson could catch him.

It was a surprise that he got his first broken nose at age thirteen. Surprising, that is, because it had taken him so long.

It wasn’t uncommon to run into his brothers taking care of neighborhood business around the blocks closest to the apartment. They didn’t mess with the adults, but when it came to the other kids, the O’Connell boys were the kings of (these) Boston streets.

This was mostly kept from their Ma, who hated seeing her boys come home with nosebleeds and scrapes and unfinished homework long after dark. Of keeping dinner warm for hours while she waited, counting up all her children to make sure they were safely home (even if they snuck out again once she collapsed onto the couch for the night.)

Mostly, by the time he heard the sounds of a scuffle it was over by the time he arrived. Which sucked.

He was an O’Connell boy, too. He was going to prove himself one.

So Jeremy went off to find a fight of his own.

He’d gotten his ass handed to him by a snively looking boy who smelled of cigarettes even though he was only the next grade up from Jeremy. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket, or crack his knuckles, or do any of the things Jeremy had learned that came with street fights on TV.

The kid had gotten a few good kicks to Jeremy’s stomach before one of his brothers heard him crying like a little wimp and chased the guy off.

Peter had held him down, wrenched his nose back in place, and made him swear up and down to say nothing to Ma.

“Teach me how to fight, then.”

“You’re too little.”

“Am not. Jack is only like, two years older than me and I know he was out here when he was twelve.”

Peter tugged him to his feet. “Jack doesn’t have twig arms.”

“Screw you.”

“Look… Ma would probably skin me if anything happened to the baby of the family, so I’ll teach you the basics–”

“Yes! Thank–”

“--If you do my chores,” Pete finished.

Jeremy groaned.

“Deal?”

“Whatever. Deal.”

They spat and shook on it, like men.

Jeremy swung his bat down, bashing in the lid of some poor stranger’s trashcan.

He hadn’t made the team. Not even as a dumb benchwarmer.

He wasn’t good at throwing, or catching –he had a growing lump on his forehead to attest to that– and he’d gotten tired and fallen behind before the warmups were even over.

Jeremy hit the trashcan again, relishing in the loud, angry BANG! And the fresh dent in the metal.

He was quick to turn the street when he heard an annoyed yell from inside the building.

The baseball in his shorts pocket was heavy. It still smelled new, a gift from his Ma for his birthday along with the bat. He half wanted to pitch it through someone’s window and be done with it. But a nice, new ball like that was expensive, and precious. He wouldn’t get rid of it, even if he never touched it again.

But he would.

He was going to be the best frickin’ baseball player in the world. Coach was gonna regret kicking him to the curb when Jeremy O’Connell was in the Major League.

All he needed to do was find out how to get there.

His legs ached, but he ran the rest of the way home.

Jeremy kept an eye out warily as he wandered down the streets, heading home. He had a hand in his pocket, and a knife in that hand. He didn’t think it’d be much use, though. The blade was about two inches long, but only if you were an optimistic sort of person.

He hadn’t been caught sneaking home after dark yet, but he was kinda tempting fate.

He might have chugged two additional beers on a dare.

Jeremy was a fucking lightweight. He hated it. He’d seen Anthony down at least five and walk back home with barely a stagger.

Anthony didn’t come with him to parties anymore. He had a girlfriend now, and the two of them made a point to show each other off around town before he dragged her to her bedroom. Plus, Anthony was old enough to go to real bars now, and had been for a little while.

So what? Jeremy only had three more years to go.

Plus, if he ever got caught he’d heard the cops would take bribes. He got a decent dollar, since not only was he one of the go-to people when you needed a skull bashed in, but he was the only one reckless enough to go after literally anyone.

Definitely more than enough to buy a few beers off Ricky (the snively kid who turned out to be Jeremy’s go-to dealer and a chill person to get fucked up with, even if it was just the two of them in Ricky’s basement messing around.) Enough, even, to bribe Jess into having sex with him (even though he’d chickened out at the last minute and had to pay her extra not to tell anyone.)

So when he heard footsteps following him, he assumed it was someone with a concussion and a grudge.

He was surprised to see a small woman turn the corner.

She didn’t seem to be at all bothered by being alone with a strange man on the outer streets of Boston in the the middle of the night. If anything, she looked inconvenienced.

“Jeremy Lee O’Connell?”

“Uhhh…” How did she know his name? She didn’t seem like the kind of girl he would have drunkenly introduced himself to at a party. Sure, she was more than hot enough –a stunner, really, damn – but she didn’t seem like the type to show up to one in the first place.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I have a job proposition for you.”

He released his hold on the knife. He wasn’t going to need it. She was just a girl.

“Sure. And what’s a little lady like you doin’ alone at night?”

The woman sighed, reached into her purse, and pulled out a revolver.

Jeremy almost pissed himself on the spot.

“I said, I have a proposition for you. One you’d be wise not to turn down. It pays well and we can take care of your mother’s insulin–” –he swallowed, hard. How did she know about his Ma’s developing diabetes?- “-You have skills we could use and, well, someone we hold in… esteem… has requested you specifically. Come with me?”

He glanced at the gun. “Me… specifically?” God, this sounded bad. Bad as in too good to be true. It sounded like a frickin’ Looney Toons trap.

The lady reached into her purse again, this time with the other hand, and a moment later a car pulled up near-silently to the sidewalk, the engine just a whisper, as though she had summoned it.

“Are you coming, Mr. O’Connell?”

“I mean, I– well I don’t not have useful skills– the opposite actually, ‘cause if you ever need a head bashed in? Boom, I’m your guy–”

She smiled tightly. “Actually, that’s exactly what I need. Hop in.”