The Kienga twins were off to one side with Tommy Hulana and the rest of their usual clique, and seemed pretty pleased with themselves for having been able to get so many of their classmates up to the school on a weekend. There were a bit over a dozen kids in all, it looked like, which represented about half of the attendance at Patrick’s regular school-day sessions. Sandra Kaloni and the knot of girls she ran with were on the other side of the group, huddled close and talking about anime and video games, like they usually did when given a spare moment of free time. A couple of kids were sitting cross-legged on the blacktop, seemingly in a world of their own, one reading a paperback novel and another drawing in a sketchbook, and the rest of them were passing a basketball back and forth and making mostly unsuccessful attempts at shooting hoops.
“Okay, everybody,” Patrick said as he approached, “huddle up.”
He put the can of paint on the ground at his feet and put the stack of brushes on top.
“Hey, Coach Tevake,” Nicky Tekiera asked, still dribbling the basketball, “what’s this all about?”
“I’ve got a project I need some help on,” Patrick answered, wincing slightly. He hated being called “coach,” and had successfully gotten the rest of the kids to break the habit, but Nicky had refused to let it go.
“What kind of project?” Regina Jimenez was still sitting on the blacktop, and barely looked up from her sketchbook as she spoke.
“It’s a kind of a . . .” Patrick thought for a moment, and then finished, “let’s call it a community cleanup. And a cultural enrichment project, too.”
“Is this part of our grade?” Angela Kururangi asked, raising her hand timidly. “Or extra credit or something?
“I’ll repeat,” Patrick sighed, “again, you are not getting a letter grade in Te’Maroan Cultural Enrichment. The school has categorized it as an art elective with a pass/fail credit. And anyone that shows up and participates, passes. Now, as I was . . .”
“Sir,” Tommy Hulana interrupted, “when are we going to learn . . .”
Patrick held up a hand to silence him.
“We’re not starting on stick fighting until after the winter break,” he said, wearily. “And that’s only if everyone brings back the permission slips signed by their parents.”
There were some worried expressions around the group. He knew that some of the parents had expressed reservations about the kids learning a martial art at school, even if they would be using sticks blunted with foam and padding. But that was a debate for another day.
One of the Kienga twins put up his hand. Patrick thought it was Ricky, but it could have been Joseph—he often had trouble telling them apart. “Sir, this community cleanup thing? You mean, like, picking up trash or something?”
Before Patrick could answer, the other Kienga twin chimed in.
“Or painting over graffiti, maybe?”
Patrick shook his head, but as he opened his mouth to answer it occurred to him that either of those ideas weren’t a million miles from what he actually had in mind, in the broadest terms.
“Kind of, yeah,” he answered, nodding slowly. “But not exactly. Here, it might be easier to show you.”
He turned in place, looking at the houses across the street and then on the far side of the corner, trying to remember where the nearest of his Uncle Alf’s marks could be found. Then he remembered how he would sometimes take a break from doing his rounds as a kid, when he was just up the street from the school, and would stop by the black top to see if any of his friends were around before heading to the convenience store over on Burgess Street to play video games, burning through whatever quarters were left from the week before. And the last house that he would always hit before taking a break, the one closest to the school, was his Aunt Pelani’s apartment building just a block west of the Church of the Holy Saint Anthony, just a stone’s throw from where he stood now.
“Come on, gang,” he said, bending down to grab the paint can and brushes, and then starting off in that direction. “A little exercise will do you good.”
It only took Patrick a few minutes to find one of his uncle’s marks on the rear of a nearby building, all but completely obscured by vines and moss and dirt. He motioned the kids to gather around.
“Okay, can everyone see this?” He pointed to the spot on the wall, about five feet off the ground.
“It’s a wall, coach,” Nicky Tekiera answered with a smirk. “Right, but it’s what you can’t see that’s the problem.” Patrick set down the paint, and then reached up and began pulling vines off the brick, one strand at a time. “There’s something hidden under here that . . . well, it’s really important.”
Patrick chewed his lip for a moment as he searched for the best way to explain it. He was pretty sure that bringing up invaders from another dimension or shambling hordes wasn’t the way to go. He needed a better way to couch it, both to stress the importance of the work and to help them understand the significance of
