The Right Kind of People S. Grady Barrett (bio) The Pazlovic house looked like it was built from bad luck until the day it burned down. The windows had a dingy patina. The gutter on one side hung crookedly and was noticeably detached from the edge of the roof. The dad was said to drink too much because he had pissed away most of his wife's family money. The mother, thin and pale, liked to stand out in the driveway at the edge of overgrown, dandelion-filled lawn, dressed in a bathrobe with a scarf wrapped around her head, smoking cigarettes as if she was contemplating something about to happen. The rumor was she had some kind of cancer. They had a son named Leonard. No one wanted much to do with him, the only child they had left. When we moved in down the street from the Pazlovic house, we didn't know anything about their struggles. I suppose my family had different luck. We had moved around a bit, going to a different house in a better neighborhood every couple of years, until we landed in this affluent neighborhood at the beginning of the summer before I started sixth grade. As we unpacked, my dad told me to make as many friends as I could because this was where we'd live for quite some time. The first time I met Paz, I was buried to my elbows in the scent of freshly mowed grass. I was gathering the clippings into a pile and then scooping them up with my hands and stuffing them into a big black garbage bag that stubbornly fluttered in the afternoon breeze. He came ambling up the walkway and stood there in front of me. He nodded as a greeting, then sniffed loudly before awkwardly pausing to push his Coke-bottle glasses back up the bridge of his nose. As I brushed the grass clippings off the front of my shirt, I noticed small, circular scars on his upper arm. A few were scabbed over. With his magnified eyes staring straight at me, he introduced himself in a nasal tone and immediately told me what he was all about: exploring, adventure, and danger. [End Page 107] He asked what I liked to do. What he said sounded about right—and a bit more considered than anything I had to offer—so I agreed that exploring, adventure, and finding danger were indeed worthwhile activities. He seemed credible enough. After all, scars don't lie. He knew what he was doing. You wanna be friends? he asked. That's the kind of question that's pure catnip for a little boy in a new place, so I answered in the affirmative. Off we went into the wooded area out behind our houses. We climbed the fences that separated backyards and snuck between the honey locust trees, trying to avoid detection, pretending we were ninjas or weary soldiers trying to find our way back to our battalion. When I told my parents about my new friend, they said they didn't know the Pazlovic family and asked me to stay away from their house. My parents didn't want me showing up at the houses of kids whose parents they hadn't met. The neighbors might get the wrong idea. They might think we weren't the right kind of people, after all. Whenever Paz showed up with his forest green backpack, we went on a mission. That usually meant we'd walk up to the golf course and wander around, until a course attendant scolded us and shooed us away. After that happened for the fourth or fifth time, Paz mentioned the tunnel and how we could go there and not be bothered. As far as I could tell—based on what he said—the tunnel was a closed-off entrance to some kind of subway that may have never existed. His description never made any sense to me, until I actually saw what he was talking about. Truth be told: I still don't know what it was or why it was there. Let's go now, I said. Okay, he said, shrugging...