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almost at my stop.
    â€œYou’re quiet, Wally,” Lester said. “That must be why no one knows you. You need to make a name for yourself—be somebody.”
    *   *   *
    My bus stop was on Lincoln Street, a few blocks from home. The bus would take me right to my doorstep if I wanted to sit twenty more minutes when I could walk home in ten. Lester followed me off, along with Frankie and Beardsley, who trailed behind obediently. Beardsley walked with a slouch, his arms swinging. The fact that they were following me at all was troubling. We could turn down a path, lose the traffic, and next thing you know my book bag and iPad are gone and I’m trying to remember how standing up works.
    Not that they’d done anything to warrant the fear. Lester talked to me like there was nothing he’d rather be doing on a Tuesday afternoon. “Tell me about yourself, man,” Lester said. We walked at a slow pace. He was a two-strap-backpack guy. I was a one-strapper myself. “You play b-ball, right? Into sports?”

    â€œNot really,” I said. “Just got lucky today.”
    â€œI’m not that good, either,” Lester said humbly. “I watch, but I don’t play. Who are you friends with? Anyone I know?”
    â€œProbably not,” I said. I couldn’t help but mumble and give short answers.
    â€œEveryone’s got some friends,” Lester said. “They put so many of us together in high school that by the time we all know each other, we’ll be going off to college. That’s why I try to talk to everyone when I get the chance.”
    People on the sidewalk cleared a path for us. Big Bad Lester wasn’t so bad. But those rumors had been going on forever. Maybe he liked the mystique. I might, too. Maybe I’d be friends with Lester Dooley, have a crew of guys who’d take down anyone who crossed me, not that anyone would when I walked around with Lester and Frankie.
    â€œThat’s my crib,” Lester said, pointing out a duplex that looked remarkably like the other buildings on this street.
    Everything in the city has a name, it seems. The section between Lincoln Street and Laurents Avenue is called the Jungle, partly because of the abundance of trees lining the streets and partly for some wild parties that get thrown here.
    â€œYou live that close?” I said.
    â€œI know, right? You must have moved here,” Lester said. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “If we grew up blocks from each other and I just noticed you now, I must be too wrapped up in my own drama or something. And if you didn’t grow up over here, that’d put you in the suburbs.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Moved the summer before sophomore year.”
    â€œSo you were living in some big house with a lawn you didn’t have to share, and you ended up here? That’s a long fall, man. So what happened? Parents split up? Divorce?”
    I nodded. “Divorced.”
    â€œMine, too. Money problems? Cheating?” Lester asked. “They say half of marriages end in divorce, but I swear it’s more than that. Everyone I know, their parents are split. Happens to everyone. You got any brothers or sisters?”
    â€œSister,” I said.

    â€œI can picture your whole family,” Lester said. Frankie and Beardsley still trailed behind us, shuffling along and talking to each other. “Your dad must be an accountant or a lawyer or something, wears one of those jackets with the elbow patches, smokes a pipe.”
    â€œIt wasn’t like that,” I said, and shook my head. “Not at all.”
    â€œGuess I misread. You like it in East Bridge?” Lester asked. “It’s not for everyone or anything, but it’s nice once you’re out of the Basement. They’ve got a restaurant on every corner on Main Street. The people are good here.”
    â€œIt’s cool,” I said. I mostly knew