Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Erik Raschke was born and raised in Denver, Colorado, graduated from the City College of New York in creative writing, and currently lives in Amsterdam.

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THE BOOK OF SAMUEL

St. Martin's Griffin

Chapter One

"Did you see me?" I said. "Made it to heaven. I touched the bottom branch."

"That's not heaven anymore," Jesse said over his shoulder. "Heaven's the third branch."

"I thought Ms. Universe's underpants was the third branch."

"You weren't here yesterday. Heaven now comes after Ms. Universe's underpants. The first branch isn't anything, but in order for it to count, you have to touch it and say 'Olivia Newton-John' three times. Also, both wheels have to be in the air. Then you can try for Ms. Universe's underpants."

The rules were always changing, but usually I got a vote in how. The day before, unfortunately, I had to straighten up my room, clean the bathroom, and mow the back lawn with our stupid push mower.

"Them." Jonathon nodded toward the distance. "They're why we changed the rules."

I pushed between Jonathon and Jesse and scanned the drainage gulch below. A group of Mexicans were standing on the opposite hill, on Tina Turner's Tabletop. Tina Turner's Tabletop was more of a ridge, made flat by the weight of a busted yellow bulldozer that had been there before even Tina Turner was born. It was the steepest side of the gulch, therefore the best starting point for the jumps.

Since the Mexicans were all standing in a row, the difference in their sizes and widths was more noticeable. Some were as tall as Jesse and me, and others were as short as third graders. They all had different haircuts or T-shirts and different-colored shoes or jackets but the same light brown skin.

"They were here yesterday," Jesse grumbled. "Them and their Huffys."

I couldn't think of a single white kid who would ride a Huffy within a mile of the jumps. In fact, I knew of only two white kids who owned Huffys, Orson Meyer and Carletta Mure, but no one took them seriously because they were Mormons.

"Look at 'em." Jonathon scowled, the freckles on his forehead coming together.

"They should get their own jumps," Jesse added.

"Look at 'em."

The three of us watched now as the oldest-looking Mexican crossed himself, started running, leaped on his Huffy, and plowed into the first jump. Before his front wheel even left the ground, his feet came off the pedals, and he crashed. Jonathon cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Burrito bikers!"

"Stupid, stupid," Jesse muttered.

The shortest Mexican went next. He got a good start, barreled full speed into the first jump, flipped, and landed on his face. Jonathon and Jesse belted out, "HA-HA, HARDY HAR HAR HAR!"

A third Mexican attempted the jumps, but crashed so bad that he writhed around on the ground for several minutes. There was blood coming out of his knee, and we were all silent, waiting to see if he would die.

"HA-HA, HARDY HAR HAR HAR!"

That was when the Mexicans picked up rocks and sticks and started marching in our direction.

"See?" Jesse said. "They have no respect."

"Beaner bikers!"

We offered the Mexicans our middle finger and rode away.

* * *

At the Dolly Madison Ice Cream Parlor they had the only double-decker, double chocolate-dipped Deuteronomy Delights in all of Denver. The owners, Gretchen and Clara, had hearing aids the size of car stereos and matching buttons that said MY BOSS IS A JEWISH CARPENTER. Jonathon, Jesse, and I plopped down on our regular vinyl stools as if we had just worked an eight-hour shift moving pianos.

"Soldier of Fortune!"

Jonathon headed toward a full rack of Highlights and Rocky Mountain Hunter magazines. Since he was skinnier than Jesse and me, he slid between the counter and the stools and reached for the magazine. Strands of his big old fluffy red hair got in my face.

"You got lice as big as mice."

We ordered three Deuteronomy Delights and went through the entire issue of Soldier of Fortune. Jesse and Jonathon went through it once more, just in case they had missed any hunting knives or submachine guns.

"What does this mean?" Jesse asked, studying the headline on the cover. "'S.O.F. Fires Up Russians in Afghanistan.'"

Below the headline was a photo of an American on the back of a camel. He was wearing Arabian clothes and holding an assault rifle in the air while a group of Arab-looking soldiers cheered him on.

"That guy," Jonathon said, tapping his finger against the American on the camel, "is helping those guys"-he circled his finger over the cheering Arab guys-"kill Russians."

"Cool."

"On camels."

"Cool times two."

Jonathon asked Clara, in his loudest voice, if he could have the Soldier of Fortune to use for a class project. She told him to be her guest. He rolled it up and stuffed it in his back pocket.

I ate my Deuteronomy Delight and said, "Nerd lichyth evol."

"Samuel's speaking pig Latin."

I pointed to the golden plaque on the wall behind me reflecting "Love Thy Children" onto the mirror behind the counter. Jonathon and Jesse began repeating "Nerd lichyth evol" until Gretchen brought us three plastic cups of water and we downed them like outlaws at a whiskey bar.

* * *

People were always dumping half-full bottles of scotch, eight-track tapes, Polaroids, lottery tickets, and old televisions right behind the YMCA, which was a short ride from the Dolly Madison.

"There should be laws," Jonathon said as we rode. "No Mexicans allowed on bike jumps."

"That's why we changed the order of the branches," Jesse told me. "We made it impossible to get to heaven if you're on a Huffy."

"Heaven on a Huffy." It sounded so funny. "Heaven on a Huffy. Huffy Heaven."

When we got to the big pile of trash behind the YMCA, I found a mud-covered lighter, wiped it off, and put it in my pocket. Jesse found a cowboy boot with no heel. Jonathon found a mixing bowl.

I tried to ignite three damp bundles of old towels in the YMCA Dumpster, holding my new lighter against them until it ran out of gas. Then I held my arms out and balanced on the yellow parking lines, one foot following the other. If I fell I'd be dead.

Jonathon and Jesse started throwing lit matches at each other. When they ran out of matches, Jesse threw a rock at Jonathon. Then Jonathon threw a handful of gravel.

"Hey!"

Mr. Holland appeared from nowhere. Even parents were afraid of Mr. Holland, the YMCA manager, because he was a Korean War vet and sometimes stole tomatoes from people's gardens. A gook had shot off half his nose and now he hocked loogeys the same way Sugar Ray Leonard spit blood.

"It's craaaazzzzzy Chuck Norris!" Jonathon yelled as loudly as he could. "Run. Run. He'll slice our throats with bamboo."

We streaked like Flash Gordons. When I looked over my shoulder to see if Mr. Holland was following us, I saw flames flickering through the metal lids of the Dumpster. Mr. Holland was standing next to the Dumpster, shaking a black Wiffle ball bat in our direction.

Jonathon, Jesse, and I scaled the fence, leaped onto a dirt path, and clambered through the gulch reeds, across the water, over the bike jumps, and up onto Tina Turner's...