(9 of 10)
The high school expelled Mike, and the court put him on probation for one year. He transferred to Father Flanagan High and managed to graduate in May. Like Tony, he intends to go to college and considers all the gunplay just a part of growing up. "I'm a pretty normal guy," he says earnestly. "I like to water-ski and read Stephen King books and stuff." He proudly announces that he owns three different kinds of Bibles, which he likes to study. He says he prays every night. After his arrest, Mike's parents were supportive and enrolled him in therapy. "My counselor says I'm susceptible to peer pressure," he says. "I'm trying to work on that."
On a Saturday night in June, Mike and Tony cruise the town in Tony's six- year-old Ford subcompact. The windows are down, and the tape deck blasts one of their favorite songs, Six Feet Deep by the Geto Boys, a Houston rap group. Tony rocks back and forth to the music. Mike wonders out loud how many kids are going to get shot this summer. "I bet one of our friends is going to get it," says Tony, who is wearing a Green Bay Packers cap and an Oakland Athletics shirt. "All the gun stuff used to be fun, but now it's old. You can't even go to a party without worrying about being shot. Someone's always got a gun." Mike agrees and mentions the need to bring along friends: "You've got to go deep."
They drop by Mike's two-story white house in a nice neighborhood in north- west Omaha, where he lives with his dad, so he can change baseball caps and grab some more tapes. "You have, like, a home life and a street life," he explains. "I'm so different at home you wouldn't believe it." Back in the car, they slow down occasionally to reach out through the windows and slap hands as they pass friends who are hanging out. "People think we are just punks and farmers in Omaha, but they're wrong," says Tony. "A lot happens here. It's just a smaller scale than L.A."
Mike nervously taps his fingers against the dashboard and then turns down the music. "Don't you think it is going to be pretty crazy this summer?" he asks, with a mixture of fear and excitement. "Real crazy," says Tony, who plans to sell his shotgun and get an easier-to-hide .38-cal. pistol. Mike stares out the window, worrying about how his probationary status will leave him unarmed. "Man, Tony," he says, shaking his head slowly. "I just don't see how I'm going to get through this summer without a gun."
Norman Johnson carries no gun anymore, but for a different reason. One afternoon last May, as he rode in the backseat of his cousin's Ford Escort on a city street, a car pulled up and the occupants opened fire. "I was just laying in the backseat, you know, resting, when my friend says there's a car right on our tail. Next thing you know, I felt this incredible shock. No ; noise, just shock." A bullet slammed into the back of Johnson's neck, crushing two vertebrae. "I looked up, and I saw bullet holes in the window," he says, speaking in a raspy voice and pausing frequently to gasp for air. "I looked down at my body, and, well, I didn't feel anything."
Almost completely paralyzed from the neck down, Johnson, who is 6 ft. 3 in. and 20 years old, spent the first month after the shooting on a breathing machine. He lost 50 lbs. Between hours of physical therapy each day, Johnson has had plenty of time to rethink his attitude toward guns.