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up—the small thin white hairs Moses feared would never grow any darker.
    â€œBut we don’t even wear sheets. That shit is all played out.”
    B. Rex had his skinny little arms crossed against his massive chest and was smiling, his incisors twice as large as his other teeth. Moses always assumed that was where he got the nickname until they all got wasted at Cheryl Oppenheimer’s birthday—the one where someone ripped the phone jack out of the wall—and watched B. Rex do his dinosaur imitations. None of the boys had been invited to that party. They just showed up.
    â€œSame sort of philosophy, though. Don’t you guys think so?” Logan said.
    Moses didn’t say anything. Boba Fett was pointing a gun directly at his face.
    â€œWe don’t need to hide our faces,” B. Rex said. “We got more pride than that.”
    â€œBut don’t you guys think this is fucked up?” Logan said. “KKK? It just seems like one major, undeniable fuck-up. That’s all. And we shouldn’t—I don’t know. We should do something. Make a stand.”
    In the end, the three of them agreed it was indeed one giant, major, undeniable fuck-up. It was their second meeting as a group, or organization or whatever it was. Even now, in the back room of the meat shop, Moses wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be. He rubbed his chest and felt the bruise above his ear where he’d whacked his head against the windshield.
    They started hanging out in front of Klips, Kuts, and Kurls after school. At first they just stood around in the parking lot. Customers walked by without even blinking at the three bald heads covered in ingrown hairs and razor burn. Three skinny white boys weren’t going to stop them from getting their hair cut at the same place they’d got it done since they were five. These were lifelong customers with weekly appointments.
    It was Moses’s idea to get the tattoos and the cigarettes. His idea to start wearing the leather jackets he found at Salvation Army when he was looking to replace the Judge for his mother. They were green and yellow football jackets from one of the old high schools. William Orson Collegiate. Each jacket said EAGLES across the back over a pair of wings. Logan said black jackets would have been better.
    It was Moses’s idea to smash old beer bottles in front of the door after old Hofstadler had swept up at the end of the day. His idea to break the front window one night with a piece of paving they found in the parking lot. His idea to piss on the door handles and spray paint a purple triple K onto the glass. B. Rex ended up getting the paint all over his hands, leaving a trail of purple spurts back to his house. The police had no problem finding him. The tattoos were the hardest part, though. They should never have tried to do it all by themselves.
    Moses had worked from an old book on sailor and prison tattoos in Logan’s basement. He’d found it at the library and snuck it past the front desk under his jacket. That night Moses held a busted blue pen taped to a needle. The hot ink dribbled all over his hand. A lighter lay discarded on the floor between empty bottles.
    They had drunk all day from Logan’s mom’s stash of bourbon, the cheap kind that smelled like a doctor’s office. Moses told them it was to dull the pain, hoping they would overlook his trembling hands. Moses had inked himself first. Facing the mirror, he ran the jagged pen across his sternum. He could barely feel the needle, but he could see the drops of blood running down his skinny stomach. It was just three letters they’d decided on after the first bottle of bourbon was empty and Logan had finished throwing up behind the coffee table.
    Moses didn’t realize until the next morning his own letters were backwards. White Eagle Army. It made even less sense when they all woke up sober and found the red and blue welts carved into their