At lunchtime he found an empty table, but three boys pushed him aside and said, “We stay here, haole.” The cafeteria looked so crowded, all the other tables occupied, elbows everywhere, Sharkey decided to skip his meal and made his way to the playground. A group of girls sat under a tree, covertly smoking, passing a cigarette butt. Some younger children with wild hair kicked a ball. Sharkey walked to a bench at the far side of the space. He sat in full sunlight and put his head in his hands to avoid the glare.

“You the new kid?”

The sudden voice startled him. A boy stood nearby, and at once Sharkey could see the boy was frightened—the way he stood, slightly bent over, something in his blinking and his pinched face, as though he were preparing to flee.

“Hi. I’m Blaine. I saw you in class this morning. That kid behind you, Wilfred, he’s psycho. A real moke.”

“Moke?”

“Big Hawaiian guy. He always gives me side-eye.”

Sharkey said, “I’m Joe.”

“Wilfred lives in a car at the back of the valley,” Blaine said. “Did you just come from the mainland?”

“I got kicked out of Punahou.”

“I wanted to go there. My folks didn’t have the money.” And now Blaine took a deep breath and began backing up.

Four boys, led by Wilfred, were walking slowly toward them, scuffing the gravel. What made them particularly fearsome was that their mouths were full and they were chewing, probably the last of their lunch. Seeing that Blaine was attempting to sidle away, one of the boys pushed him against the fence. Blaine crouched and clutched his stomach, as though to make himself small. Wilfred stepped near him and flicked a finger against Blaine’s ear, stinging him.

“What you wen’ telling the fucken haole?”

Blaine whimpered and held the ear that Wilfred had flicked.

Wilfred confronted Sharkey, his big belly near Sharkey’s face. He was fattish, his T-shirt stained, his shorts dirty, his hair tangled, flecks of food on his lips, and he had a dog odor of dirt. “He wen’ say something to you?”

Sharkey said, “I don’t know anything.”

“He a panty,” Wilfred said. The other boys laughed, too loud, their teeth large, their tongues scummy. “You a panty too?”

Blaine fidgeted, still crouched, his hands now near his face, as though expecting a slap.

“You got something for me?” Wilfred said, and now he seemed to be staring at the scar on Sharkey’s cheek.

Sharkey was still seated. He calculated that if he got to his feet the boy would take it for defiance, or a challenge. So he continued to sit as Wilfred repeated his question, this time coming close—his odor was so strong it made him bigger and meaner. The boy was still focused on the scar, seeming to question it with his open mouth.

“I guess you’re the boss,” Sharkey said.