Veneer by Daniel Verastiqui

heavy hand on Deron’s shoulder. “No, detention still stands. You see, although I accept that you didn’t make the shop, I do think you know who did.”
    Deron searched for a response, but didn’t feel confident he could say anything without broadcasting that it was a lie.
    The principal removed his hand. “And I don’t think you’re going to tell me who the true artist is.”
    “Even if I knew,” said Deron, trying to steady his veneer. If it wavered even a little bit, the principal’s keen eye would catch it.
    “I know,” he replied, nodding, “which is why you will continue to serve detention. I will let the matter drop and leave it to you to make the necessary corrections with your conspirator.”
    “She was just—” He caught himself, but it was too late.
    “She?”
    They were at the end of the hallway and to the right, the outer doors opened to the back of the school. Deron could see the sidewalk give way to a green lawn. Further on, it dipped to reveal the tops of the bleachers by the football field.
    “As I said, I’ll leave it to you. I trust we’ll have no repeats?”
    It wasn’t fair, him thinking Deron had wanted any of this. But those were the cards on the table, and it was no use thinking about the ones that had been burned. He shook his head feebly and looked away.
    “Then have a pleasant evening, Mr. Bishop.” Principal Ficcone walked away, resuming his frantic pace as he rushed about the school tending to the late-afternoon fires.
    Rather than follow the man that had just berated him, Deron exited through the double doors and took in a breath of fresh air. It smelled good, not like the stale air-conditioned environment inside the school. Finally free to pursue his life again, he thought of Rosalia. She was probably waiting for him, sending him messages every few minutes, holding a one-sided conversation until he got out of detention. Smiling, he unhooked the plastic clasps on his bag to take out his palette, but a flash of movement in the distance distracted him.
    Deron paused, could just make out Sebo’s signature jacket. He was sitting on the bleachers on the other side of the field and when he noticed Deron, he waved invitingly. Sebo wasn’t one to hang around after school, so if he had waited for Deron to get out of detention, it must have been for something important.
    Trudging across the lush lawn, Deron felt his shoes sink into the ground as if it had just been watered. He veered to the left to take the stairs down the small incline and as he did, he saw Sebo jump down behind the bleachers. He was reckless like that, both in reality and in the games they played. Destined 4 Death was always a crapshoot with Sebo; sometimes he liked to play it straight, stay in formation, and coordinate with other players. Other times, he preferred to interpret the term run and gun literally and forgo all planning. That was the way most of their nights ended, devolving into mayhem when everyone was tired and ready to quit.
    At some point, Deron realized that the guy kneeling on the ground behind the bleachers wasn’t Sebo. It was in the shoes; Sebo always wore reconciled throwback Skechers. Though nothing in Easton was constant, Deron had never known him to wear the heavy boots that the person in front of him was sporting. Then there was the general shape: broad shoulders that didn’t match up with Deron’s memory, hair that peeked out from under a baseball cap, and finally, the design on the back of the jacket. Up close, there was no mistaking the imitation.
    Of course, all of this became clear a moment too late. By the time Deron had processed this new information, a blunt object was already moving swiftly through the air.
    It made contact with Deron’s head just above his right ear and sent tremors through his vision. He watched half of the world sizzle, as if the outlines of every object suddenly had a million volts passing through them. His body leaned dangerously, threatening to fall