urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:fishbones Fishbones Fishbones 2008-02-22T06:36:38Z urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:fishbones:29307 2007-08-10T07:36:43Z 2008-02-22T06:36:38Z If you aren't sure whether or not you would be interested in reading this book, you can try looking at a sample chapter to determine if you like the writing. The following is the fourth chapter in, and doesn't give too much away.<br /><br /><a name="cutid1"></a><br /><br /><b>Chapter Four</b><br /><br /><br />“Get some fresh air!”<br /><br />Four simple words had marooned the two boys from their homes, leaving them trapped outdoors for the remainder of their Saturday afternoon. The air outside was indeed fresh, settling at a chilly 45 degrees. Ferris and Demos had walked eight blocks east until they hit the water’s edge, deciding to rest by the ocean. There was a half mile of rocky shore, built up with cement blocks and pavement. The vicinity was empty aside from a grandmother and her child feeding stale naan to seagulls 50 yards away. The birds were circling overhead, some bickering with each other and others sunning their feathers on the cement. The rocks piled up along the shore were still wet with the recently receded tide, bleached from the sun and salt.<br /><br />“It’s cold for spring,” observed Demos, sitting on a ledge with his feet up.<br /><br />“What’s the weather like where you’re from?” Ferris asked, honestly curious. He had a growing interest in other countries, and had trouble choosing only one language to study in class. <br /><br />“Verona? It would be.. 20 degrees maybe.”<br /><br />At first Ferris thought Demos had a bad sense of weather, seeing that 20 degrees was quite cold. It then hit him that Europe used Celsius, and the number was about the equivalent of 68 degrees Fahrenheit.<br /><br />“Tell me more about it.”<br /><br />“Hm. The buildings aren’t tall like they are here. The roofs are all red, and the hills behind the city are full of olive trees.”<br /><br />“You sound like you miss it,” mused Ferris.<br /><br />“Yeah..”<br /><br />Ferris looked out over the water, wondering what it would like to leave his city. The sun was hot on the back of his neck, and he rubbed his cold fingers over the skin there. He liked the way the shorn hair felt. He’d convinced his mother to cut his hair off, despite her hesitation and disappointment. It was now short and neat, making it impossible to tell that his head had ever carried thick curls. He’d also recently received a new prescription for his glasses. The frames were plastic and black, a style he enjoyed seeing on one of his great-uncles. In the past month his braces had come off and it seemed as if he was slowly, but surely, becoming a young man. He worried that Demos didn’t like it here. As much as Ferris didn’t like his school or his peers, he did love Southport.<br /><br />“But,” Demos eventually continued, “I like it here, too.”<br /><br />Ferris turned to look at the boy next to him. Demos didn’t notice, only keeping his eyes on the sea and listening to gulls calling to each other over the water. He failed to spot Ferris’ slight smile, transfixed on the simple scene in front of him. It was good that he liked the city. Though neither boy fully grasped the concept, Demos’ grandfather practically owned it.<br /><br />“What about you?” Demos asked, finally putting his attention on Ferris.<br /><br />“Me?”<br /><br />“Do you like it here?”<br /><br />“Mhm.” This was an understatement. Looking up, Ferris shielded his eyes from the sun with a hand. There were very few clouds in the sky. Between them remained the long contrail of an airplane that had passed by.<br /><br />“My family has been here since my great-great-grandparents. I’ll probably die here,” Ferris finished. Death was an unusually casual subject for both of them.<br /><br />“You think so?” Demos asked, genuinely interested.<br /><br />“Yeah.” Ferris shut his eyes, thinking contently. “But not before I travel.”<br /><br />“You should visit Italy, then.”<br /><br />“I’d love to,” Ferris replied easily.<br /><br />“Grandpa has a villa in Verona. We have a smaller house in Venice, too.”<br /><br />“Sounds like he has a lot of money.”<br /><br />“Yeah..” Demos went silent for a moment, unsure of where the conversation was going.<br /><br />“Do you.. know much about what he does? For a living, I mean.”<br /><br />Demos turned to look at Ferris, testing him with his eyes. He was trying to figure out how much his friend already knew. They both were quiet. Ferris looked back at him with an honest, calm expression. He knew exactly what Demos was thinking.<br /><br />“I do,” Demos answered slowly.<br /><br />“What do you think of it?”<br /><br />“I don’t know, what do you think of it?”<br /><br />Ferris smiled.<br /><br />“I think it’s fascinating.”<br /><br />Demos relaxed. Ferris clearly wasn’t talking about waste management or some other cover-up career his family had come up with. He knew. ‘Fascinating.’ It wasn’t a word he usually heard spoken by boys his age. How was it that Ferris knew so much?<br /><br />“Really?” Demos asked, though it sounded like more of a statement.<br /><br />“Yeah. Do they involve you in things? Or do they try and hide it from you? Dad tries to keep it away from me but he’s kind of bad at it.”<br /><br />“They used to, but lately Sergio has been training me. He says I have really good marksmanship.”<br /><br />“Marksmanship?” Ferris blinked. “Why would you need to shoot a gun for waste management?”<br /><br />Demos stared at him.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before Ferris bit his lip, then laughed.<br /><br />“I’m just fucking with you, I know they’re in the mafia.”<br /><br />“You’re a dick,” Demos answered, shoving his friend’s arm. As they both laughed, he considered how lucky he was to have a friend who wasn’t frightened away by the concept.<br /><br />“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to perpetuate any stereotypes.”<br /><br />“You’re one to talk, Mr. Jewish-violinist-accountant.”<br /><br />“Hey, my dad’s the accountant, not me.”<br /><br />“Didn’t you say you were studying to be one?”<br /><br />“That, or a biologist. I’m really into science.” Ferris considered his words before continuing. “But I think accounting would be a better way to stay in touch with you.”<br /><br />He gave Demos a sideways glance, his expression looking almost impish.<br /><br />“Don’t you think?”<br /><br />Demos shut his eyes and shrugged, smiling a bit as he leaned back on the ledge.<br /><br />“We’ll see.” His answer was casual, but ultimately, he knew that Ferris was right. Before their conversation could continue, a heavy voice called out from the street behind them. It had a thick Jersey accent and carried well over the wind.<br /><br />“Hey, boys! Get over here!”<br /><br />“Oh, it’s Nicky,” Demos said, looking over his shoulder at the heavyset Italian who was standing next to a parked car. “Come on.”<br /><br />Nicholas Morello was a friend of the Giorgetti family, working as a soldier for Demos’ uncle Roberto. He often served as a driver, being well known for his ability to maneuver any vehicle in any situation. This driving task, however, was less than critical.<br /><br />“Your uncle sent me to pick you up, dinner’s almost ready.”<br /><br />“Is he paying you in manicotti?” Demos asked as he got into the car with Ferris.<br /><br />“Maybe,” Nicky replied shamelessly, adjusting the gold watch on his wrist before starting the car. Ferris watched them both from the backseat as he cleaned his glasses with his shirt. The conversation with Demos hadn’t been very long, but he felt as if years had passed. When they left the house that afternoon, they were friends. Now it seemed as if they were more than that. Trust was a strange thing. Though he didn’t even know Demos’ birthday, he felt as if he could put his life into the boy’s hands without blinking an eye.