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  Text copyright © 2014 by Patrick Jones

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Cover and interior photographs © Mona Makela/Dreamstime.com (boy);

  © iStockphoto.com/joeygil (locker background).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick, 1961–

  Target / by Patrick Jones.

  pages cm. — (The alternative)

  Summary: When seventeen-year-old Frankie Smith’s incarcerated father and cousins try to get him involved in the First Nation Mafia, even after his mother enrolls Frankie in an alternative high school to keep him safe, Frankie has a hard choice to make.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–3900–9 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4633–5 (eBook)

  [1. Gangs—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Native Americans—Minnesota—Fiction. 6. Family problems—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Tar 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013041393

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 7/15/14

  eISBN: 978-1-46774-633-5 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-386-7 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-387-4 (mobi)

  1

  Frankie Smith took his time unpacking his few belongings into the tiny bedroom of the apartment on St. Paul’s east side. After years of moving in and out of double-wide trailers and rented houses on the Riverwood Reservation, he wondered if living in a crowded high-rise in a big city would be weird. Frankie’s mom said they were in St. Paul to be close to his father, but Frankie knew it was also to get him away from his friends.

  “How’s it going?” Frankie’s mother yelled from the other room. Frankie didn’t answer. He’d given her the silent treatment the whole three-hour drive from the reservation; it was one of his few weapons. She already knew people, had a job, and had a plan for them: “We’re starting over, Frankie, starting over.”

  Frankie wasn’t interested in starting over. He was even less interested in starting next week at a big urban high school. There was nothing school could teach him more than the streets or his grandfather, a Dakota tribal elder.

  His mom knocked gently on the door, but Frankie didn’t open it. He wouldn’t let her in: his door, his business, his life. “Frankie, hurry up and get dressed, or we’ll be late to see your father.”

  Frankie sat on the bed and looked east out of the eighth-story window. He’d never lived this high up before. Moving slowly, he unpacked his three prized possessions. The first was a handwritten, framed prayer from Chief Yellow Lark that his grandfather had made for him. The second was the best book he’d ever read, which also happened to be the only one he’d ever finished: The Outsiders, by S. E. Hinton. The action-packed story of “greasers” and “socs” appealed to Frankie, even though the book didn’t seem that realistic. These weren’t real gangs like he knew in Riverwood. Gangs settled scores not with fists, but guns. Guns like his third possession: his dad’s pearl-handled revolver.

  2

  “Frankie!” some guy shouted over booming bass outside Frankie’s building. Frankie turned to look as he reached the front door, carrying one of their last boxes from the move.

  Frankie’s instincts told him to run, but before he could move, the car came to a stop. “Frankie, I heard you were coming to town.” The passenger door opened, and a tall kid with short black hair, acne, and dark sunglasses emerged. “It’s me. Billy.”

  Frankie took a step toward the car—a beat-up Buick that looked older than he was—as the driver’s door opened. Same basic look, but longer hair and better skin. “Forget your cousins already, Frankie?” the driver said.

  With a quick nod and smile, Frankie stretched out his hands, but the twins took turns wrapping him in a bear hug. They smelled of cigarettes. “Jay! Good to see you guys.”

  Even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t really sure. His mom wanted him to start over here, but that would be difficult if he got involved with members of his dad’s side of the family.

  “Get in, let us show you the hood,” Jay said. “It’s ours for the taking.”

  Frankie reluctantly climbed into the back-seat of the clunker. His mouth felt dry from the smoke inhabiting every crevice of the torn upholstery. “For the taking?”

  “They locked up all the OGs, cuz. There’s a need for new blood,” Jay continued. “The new chiefs are going to need all the braves they can get. You’re in, right?”

  Jay rolled up his sleeve to show Frankie his First Nation Mafia tattoo. Frankie had seen plenty of them before at his old school, at home, and briefly on his own left arm, before his mom forced him to have it removed. The area still stung, especially when he was sweating—like in the beat-up car, keeping his arm covered. He also kept his mouth shut as Jay explained that the recent imprisonment of thirty older leaders of the First Nation Mafia meant there was a power vacuum. “But you gotta prove yourself, cuz,” Jay said. “Don’t matter what you did at Riverwood. It’s like starting over.”

  3

  “Really, Frankie, the first day?” Frankie’s mom sighed as she sat with him outside the Harding High assistant principal’s office. With her piercing brown eyes, long black hair, and radiant smile, Frankie’s mom oozed both sweetness and confidence to outsiders. But she didn’t hide her bitterness about how fast Frankie had found trouble.

  “What is it this time?” Unlike his dad, who would’ve slapped him with an open palm, Frankie’s mom used her words, her tone, and her manner as discipline.

  “Some snot-nosed kid was trying to prove himself on the first day.” What Frankie said was partially true—except he was the one trying to prove himself, and Jay and Billy had picked out his target. “I’ll only miss school for a few days.”

  “I bet the other kid will miss his front teeth for longer,” his mom snapped. Another deep sigh. Then, “Frankie, you promised, remember?”

  Frankie nodded. Before he’d stopped all but essential communication, he had promised his mom he’d stop getting in trouble.

  “It’s not the promise you made to me,” his mom said. “But to my father. You dishonor not just yourself, but your grandfather. If you dishonor him, you dishonor all our ancestors.”

  Frankie stared at the wall to avoid his mom’s eyes.

  “Were Jay and Billy there?” his mom asked.

  Frankie shrugged.

  “I warned you not to hang around with them, didn’t I?”

  “Mom, you tell me so much stuff to do and not do that I can’t keep it all straight.”

  Frankie’s mom rolled her eyes and tugged at her ID badge for work. “Simple. Stay out of trouble. Period.”

  Just then the assistant principal, an older white guy with a beer belly and crew cut, waddled through his doorway. “Are you Frankie’s mother?” the AP asked. Frankie’s mom nodded and sighed again, like it hurt to admit it.

  4

  Corn chips, Pepsi, and the TV remote had kept Frankie busy most of the week. He’d served out his four-day suspension from Harding, although
he wasn’t going back. His mom had decided to move him to Rondo Alternative High School to avoid Billy and Jay. She’d also called their mother and told her to keep them away from her son.

  “You there, cuz?” Frankie heard Jay shout from the hallway. Frankie tossed the remote on the sofa and headed for the apartment door. Peeking out, Frankie saw his cousins waiting. He paused before he opened the door to them. After an exchange of fist bumps, Billy and Jay made their way into the room.

  “Guys, you’re not supposed to be here,” Frankie said. “My mom said that—”

  The twins laughed, and Jay cut him off. “Aww, his mom said … What are you, five?”

  “I’m just surprised to see you. I thought she talked to your mom about it,” Frankie said as his cousins sat on the sofa.

  “Mom doesn’t remember much.” Billy mimicked someone drinking. “Not much at all.”

  Frankie moved to the kitchen table and picked up one of his mother’s business cards from her new job. He handed it to Billy. Billy looked it over, laughed, and handed it to his brother.

  “Thanks, but our mom’s been to plenty of—” Jay stopped and examined the business card. “Plenty of chemical dependency counselors. It don’t stick.”

  “Hey, good thing you ain’t coming back to Harding,” Billy said. “Seems that guy we had you pop was some big deal in the Twenty-sixers.”

  “Twenty-sixers?” Frankie repeated.

  “The Latino gang pinching in on us,” Jay said. “I smoothed it out, but if I was you, I’d be careful.” Frankie nodded.

  “Seen your dad? How is he?” Billy asked.

  Frankie moved to the door and opened it, annoyed with the question. He glanced in the mirror by the door and saw his father’s cold stare looking back at him. “Same as always,” Frankie answered.

  5

  Rondo Alternative High School didn’t look like any school Frankie had ever seen. The school shared a building with a hockey rink, and the small classrooms and smaller conference rooms made him feel like a giant. At Riverwood there was so much space, but in St. Paul it seemed everything was jammed together. Especially when he was stuck in an office with four adults.

  “Good afternoon, Frankie,” said Mrs. Baker, the principal. Another man and woman smiled, nodded, and also welcomed Frankie and his mother. New in her job, Frankie’s mom couldn’t take time off work, so they were meeting to enroll him over her lunch hour.

  Frankie’s mom, as always, had lots of questions, and Frankie pretended to pay attention while he sized up the principal and teachers: Mrs. Baker, young and hot; Mr. Aaron, a school aide who was kinda old but seemed cool; and Mrs. Howard-Hernandez, not as young, talked too much about reading.

  “Frankie, is there anything you want to add?” Mrs. Baker asked.

  “You got Internet?” Frankie replied, recovering from his daze. “We don’t have none at the crib.”

  Mrs. Baker nodded. “We make broad use of online resources in our learning environment,” she said.

  Frankie raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve just said yes.”

  Mr. Aaron laughed. That guy might be okay, Frankie thought.

  “We’ve yet to receive your transcripts from Riverwood High School, so tell us a little bit about yourself,” Mrs. Baker said. “Favorite subjects, favorite books?”

  Frankie felt uncomfortable in the hard green chair. “I don’t like to read.”

  Mrs. Howard-Hernandez chimed in. “I’m the language arts teacher, so I take that as a challenge,” she said, smiling.

  “Frankie, don’t be shy,” his mom said, but Frankie wished he were anywhere but in that chair.

  “Really, there’s nothing you’d like to share with us?” Mrs. Baker asked.

  Frankie met her pleasant expression with a tensed jaw. “Only subject I care about is history—my family’s history.”

  6

  “Who’s the hottie?” Frankie asked the kid sitting next to him in fifth-period language arts, motioning to the girl a few seats ahead. Frankie didn’t take his eyes off her curves. “She got a boyfriend?”

  “Dude, that’s my cousin Sofia, so watch it,” the guy said, but he laughed when he said it.

  “Man, sorry, my bad,” Frankie said, laughing as well, finally breaking his stare. “Frankie Smith.” He offered his fist.

  “Luis Martinez,” the guy said and accepted the fist bump. “No worries.”

  “What you in for?” Frankie whispered, since Mrs. Howard-Hernandez had started talking.

  Luis laughed again. “It’s a school, not a prison. Though sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” Frankie didn’t say anything. Luis obviously hadn’t been to a real prison.

  “We have a new student today,” the teacher said. “Frankie, anything you’d like to say?”

  “I used to live up in Riverwood.” The teacher waited for more, but Frankie just stared at her. His history was nobody’s business.

  “Frankie told me he’s not much of a reader, but we’ll see about that,” said Mrs. Howard-Hernandez, smiling. “So, what is the last book you read?”

  In his head, Frankie had already renamed her Mrs. Shut Your Face Please. “The Outsiders,” he mumbled. He expected some giggles, but no one laughed. The teacher walked to an over-stuffed bookcase, examined a shelf, and pulled out a worn paperback copy of the book.

  “‘When I stepped out into the bright sunlight, from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman, and a ride home,’” the teacher read aloud.

  “I got a question,” Luis spoke up. “Who the hell is Paul Newman?” Everybody laughed.

  “Frankie?” the teacher asked. Frankie shrugged as the laughter became directed at him.

  “There’s your first assignment, Frankie,” the teacher said. “For next week: Who is Paul Newman?”

  7

  “Frankie, get in quick,” Billy shouted from the passenger side of a newish SUV.

  Frankie was out on the sidewalk in front of their apartment building late on Friday evening, just to get away from his mom. Their apartment seemed so small when she was home. He wanted to get fresh air in his lungs, although the streets of east St. Paul seemed always to be filled with truck exhaust fumes. “Get in!” Jay yelled. “Move!”

  Frankie had gotten through his first week at Rondo without getting in trouble, so he thought he’d earned a reward of some sort. He was ready for whatever excitement the twins had in store.

  “Where’d you get the ride?” Frankie asked. Jay just giggled, which told Frankie all he needed to know about the answer.

  With the music loud, Jay drove Frankie through the neighborhood, pointing out which corners belonged to the First Nation Mafia and which ones the 26ers held. Frankie grunted every now and then, pretending to be interested, but he wasn’t. Maybe his mom was right. He could start over: new city, new school, new friends. Maybe a new girlfriend.

  “So like we said, you gotta start small and prove yourself,” Billy said. “You give us thirty percent of what you sell, but then we kick part of that up to the new chiefs. That’s how it works.”

  Frankie said nothing, but he felt his empty pockets and heard his growling stomach and knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

  Billy turned and handed Frankie a pair of sunglasses and two large sacks. “You best put your seatbelt on, cuz,” Billy said. “Or you’ll fly through the windshield like an arrow.”

  Frankie buckled up and started to speak, but he was interrupted by the jarring force, the crashing of metal, and the shattering of glass as the SUV plowed into a closed corner store. When the SUV came to rest, Billy and Jay leaped from the vehicle. Frankie followed, dazed and scared.

  “Grab as much as you can, mostly cigarettes, that’s where the money is!” Jay yelled.

  In a single minute, Frankie and the twins filled up sacks with cigarettes as the security alarm blared. Then the three raced toward the beat-up Buick parked down the block.

  8

  “Remember, there are rules we’ll
need to follow,” Frankie’s mom said as they exited the interstate.

  Frankie laughed to himself: his mom never met a rule she didn’t follow, and his dad never met one he didn’t try to break. As his mom reminded him of the visiting rules, Frankie pretended to listen, but mostly he nodded in time to the music playing from the new iPod in his pocket and bud in his right ear. Even after kicking back thirty percent, selling smokes at Rondo was profitable, both in dollars and in friends. Too bad Sofia doesn’t smoke, Frankie thought. He’d need to find another way to get close to her.

  “Frankie, are you listening?” He heard his mom ask.

  “Yeah.” Frankie smiled, nodded, and turned down the volume.

  “I’m glad this new school is working out. Do you like it?”

  “I guess.” Frankie didn’t want to admit he liked Rondo—anything he liked was something his mom could take away if he got busted or if she found the iPod and asked questions.

  “Are you making some friends?”

  Frankie tried not to laugh. “Quite a few.” He figured loyal customers counted.

  “I’m glad you aren’t hanging around Jay and Billy anymore. They’re a bad influence. It’s not all their fault—their mother …”

  Frankie turned the music up. He didn’t want to hear about parental influence, especially on the way to see his dad. They were going to visit him four times every week: Saturday and Sunday afternoons and Thursday and Friday nights. The regular visiting hours at Stillwater State Prison.

  9

  Half an hour later, Frankie hid the iPod under the car seat and then handed his mom everything else.

  “Let’s go, Frankie, the line here is terrible on Sundays,” his mother said. Frankie nodded and fell in behind. The security check at Stillwater was the harshest he’d gone through in years of visiting his dad at various jails, county correctional facilities, and halfway houses. Frankie’s dad, Franklin Brave Eagle Smith, had spent more time behind bars than free during his son’s life. But his recent conviction, as one of the First Nation Mafia chiefs, meant he would be in prison until he either died of old age or was targeted by a rival gang.