by Jeyn Roberts
“Okay, everyone,” Jesse calls out to the crowd. He’s recovered quickly for someone who just had his life threatened. “We’re going to take the party outside. Bets are still on for the next few minutes.”
I look at the group of boys guarding the front door and wonder how many punches I’ll need to throw before I manage to clear a path, when arms clamp down around me. I smell cigarettes and whiskey.
“Come on, little lady,” a voice whispers at my neck.
Trank has snuck up behind me. My body involuntarily shudders and I spin around, but he’s holding me. Our eyes lock and for a second I’m horrified he might recognize me. Does he remember the last time we were this close? Or was I just another gutter rat to torture because he got paid?
I remember that Trank was the one who sucker-punched Christian first. When Christian collapsed, Trank kicked him in the face and split his lip. I remember kneeling down beside my friend, trying to use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the blood, before Trank grabbed hold of me. He pulled me back by my arms, just like he’s doing now.
Now he stares into my eyes, but there’s no recognition there.
I’ve changed too much.
I imagine breaking away from his grip. A head butt to the forehead first, and when he falls back in surprise, I’ll break his nose with my fist. Maybe I’ll split his lip like he did to Christian. And when I’m finished and Trank is lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, I’ll kneel down beside him and whisper something in his ear:
“Not so helpless now.”
But I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I actually allow Trank to pull me toward the backyard and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to grab my breast on the way. I give him a sharp jab in the ribs as a warning and thankfully he takes the hint.
I pass Chael and he follows us, not saying a word. He’s got a weird expression on his face. His eyes are in a faraway place. He’s not even fidgeting.
Out in the yard, Trevor and his group are waiting for me. They’ve got weapons. I see the flash of a knife blade. A metal pipe. Someone else is carrying a screwdriver. Trevor himself is showing off a fancy new tire iron.
The odds are starting to look more in their favor.
Eight
“You want some help?”
Chael appears beside me. He’s no longer grinning. He’s staring at Trank with a look that’s probably similar to the one I’m sporting. Disgust. Hatred.
“I think that’s against the rules,” I say.
“Screw the rules.”
I look over at the group of thugs standing beside the pool and realize that as much as Chael’s help might be useful right now, I can’t allow him to join in. I have no idea if he can take care of himself and I’m not about to risk finding out. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.
Besides, Chael’s face is too pretty to get rearranged.
“No, I can handle it,” I say. It strikes me that this conversation is completely surreal. How am I going to protect Chael when I’m not even sure I can take care of myself? Why am I being too stubborn to accept help from someone who might be a useful ally when the odds are so unfair to begin with?
Chael nods and although he doesn’t look very happy about it, he does take a few steps back. “I thought you’d say that,” he says. “Holler if you need me.”
“Some knight in shining armor,” I say, with a voice that I hope sounds lighthearted.
“I’ve seen you fight,” Chael says. “I’m more concerned about them to be honest.”
“I’m going to kill you, bitch,” Trevor shouts from about fifteen feet away. He doesn’t seem to want to get any closer.
“Jesse, stop this.” Paige has materialized from her hiding spot inside the house. No one is with her. Even her group of friends has left her alone, choosing to come and stand by the pool to watch the show. Paige approaches Jesse, who is still taking some last-minute bets. She’s holding her phone in her hands. “I’m going to call the cops if you don’t stop this.”
Jesse grabs her arm and wrestles the phone away from her. “Shut up, Paige,” he says. He turns and tosses her phone into the pool. Paige races over to the side but she’s too late. It sinks into the deep end before she can retrieve it.
Paige comes back toward me. There are tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know he was going to do this,” she says.
“Come on,” Trevor says. “Quit stalling.”
“Okay,” Jesse says, and he holds his hands up to his face as he shouts. “All bets are in. Welcome to Fight Hell. In that corner, light as a feather, our girl, Faye. Pretty as a peach but she needs to learn to dress a bit better. Come on, Faye; show us something once in a while! Would it kill you to wear a decent shirt? You’ve got the package. No one is that much of a prude.”
The noise is unbelievable. People scream and cheer. A few stoners in the corner hold up their lighters. Someone tosses a beer at the diving board. Glass explodes everywhere.
“And in that corner, weighing in at a hell of a lot more, a bunch of guys who want Faye dead. Let the fight begin.”
Jesse cracks open a beer and takes a long drink. Foam splatters against his shirt. This must be the signal for round one because suddenly all four guys are heading toward me.
I put up my fists.
This is the situation I’ve been warned about over and over. Never let them notice you. I’ve screwed up bad. This isn’t even about high school anymore. I could actually care less if these kids see me beat the snot out of Trevor. That alone will earn me enough respect and they’ll probably leave me alone after this. No one is going to tell the teachers about what’s happening tonight. Being a witness to this alone is more than enough to get expelled. Even Paige, who threatened to call the police, is probably bluffing. She doesn’t want to get in trouble any more than the rest of us.
I’m more concerned about Trank. He’s most certainly not going to forget me after this. All those years of careful watching on my part are about to be ruined. It’s going to be harder to stick to the shadows, now that I’m visible.
People continue to scream but I stay where I am. I’m not going to start this fight. Better to let them come to me. But Trevor hesitates; he’s waiting for my move. They’ve stopped about ten feet away, their weapons raised, but they’re obviously a little uncertain about how to proceed. It’s not every day a group of guys try to beat up on a girl on a bet. I can’t imagine they’ve done this sort of thing before.
The crowd grows restless. People start to boo and toss half-empty cups of beer in our direction. One of them hits Trevor in the face and beer splashes into his eyes. Someone throws a shoe. Another faceless person tosses his shirt.
This is starting to get a bit ridiculous. The guys wait, holding their weapons. Either my fame precedes me, or they’re really just a bunch of cowards.
Finally, one of the guys takes a step forward, the one carrying the metal pipe in his hands. Spurred on by the crowd’s cheering, he raises his weapon and heads toward me. I lean back on the balls of my feet, raising my hands to protect my face. The audience goes wild. I keep my eyes on him the way Gazer taught me. Never turn your back on an enemy for even a second.
He swings the pipe toward my face. I lean back at the last second, feeling the breeze of the metal as it misses my nose by an inch. When he comes around for a second blow, I raise my arm, and deliver a short quick jab straight into his nose. He flinches and blood spurts from his nostrils but he doesn’t drop the weapon.
So I go at him again. He blocks the uppercut but I’m too quick, swinging around with my left, a blow that lands squarely on his ear. A good kick to the stomach sends him reeling, dropping the pipe. Unable to keep his balance with the momentum, he steps backward and right into the pool.
The audience goes insane. When the guy breaks the surface, he’s met with dozens of beer cups tossed in his face. He makes hi
s way over to the shallow end, where people splash water at him and continue to bombard him with whatever objects they can find.
“That’s one,” I say to Trevor. I pick up the metal pipe and pass it back toward Chael, who takes it. No need to have weapons lying around on the ground where anyone can pick them up and try to use them on my back. I definitely don’t need a weapon myself. I might hurt someone badly with my hands alone. Having a weapon would only heighten that. The last thing I want to do is end up on a murder charge. Not with all these witnesses around.
I don’t get a chance for a break. The guys with the switchblade and the screwdriver decide to double-tag me. They split up, trying to come around on each side, hoping that I might get confused or something. As Screwdriver comes in for the kill, wielding his weapon like a knife, I drop to the ground and swing my leg out, sending him flying. He lands on his back hard, his head cracking against the pool cement. A few others rush to his aid, and when they help him up into a sitting position, there’s blood all over the back of his blond hair. Someone actually holds up a few fingers and asks him how many.
Now Switchblade stops, unsure if he should proceed. He’s got his knife out in front of him but he’s seeing the blood dripping from the back of Screwdriver’s head. Obviously, he was all into it earlier tonight when Trevor asked him if he wanted to go beat the snot out of someone, but now that he’s watching his friends getting taken out one by one, he’s not so sure. It never dawned on him that he might be the one to end up bleeding. Now he’s looking at me and he’s no longer seeing a helpless girl that needs to be taught a lesson. He sees me for what I really am. He’s the only one here who seems to have an ounce of brains left.
Never mess with the lion when you’re only a giraffe.
From behind I hear footsteps rushing toward me but I’m not quick enough to turn. Something hard slams down against my shoulder and pain explodes across my body. Trevor has snuck up behind me. My arm instantly goes dead from the blow; the lucky idiot somehow managed to hit a nerve. I turn around to face him, trying hard to pretend that my arm isn’t useless and that fighting him is still going to be a breeze. Rubbing my shoulder with my good hand, I try to bring some life back into it.
“Hurt, didn’t it, bitch,” Trevor says. I almost can’t hear him over the screaming of the crowd. His eye is still blackened and bruises cover his face from where I shoved him into the restroom sink.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say. “You don’t look so good, though. It must really suck knowing that a girl whipped you so badly.”
“You won’t be singing that tune when I crack your skull,” he says, swinging the tire iron down again. This time I manage to duck out of the way. I avoid the next three blows too, mostly out of pure luck. The pain throbs in my shoulder and it’s making it harder to concentrate. When the last blow misses me by mere inches, I finally manage to get a sharp jab in at his nose.
The fight has slowed down somewhat due to the fact that he managed to hurt my good swinging arm. I’m not as strong with my left and this is teaching me a very valuable lesson. Although I would never admit to being afraid, I am a little worried that Trevor might actually win. With me being hurt, he’s got a very good advantage over me. I can feel sweat dripping down my forehead and my leather jacket is starting to get toasty. It also doesn’t help that I can see Switchblade bouncing up and down from the corner of my eye. He’s regaining his cool and getting antsy about jumping back into the fight. If he joins, I may have to call on Chael to help.
I’d almost rather get beaten than do that.
I don’t know what’s worse. My pride or my stubbornness.
Gazer has told me in the past that a warrior has to be equally matched in all body parts if they’re going to be formidable warriors. I get it now. It never dawned on me that I might lose an arm or a leg, or even an eye in the heat of battle. I decide that if I get out of this, I’m going to spend the next several weeks only fighting with my left arm, until I feel I’m more even.
Trevor circles around me a few times and then tries coming in from the left. I bring up my good arm and block the blow, my leather jacket absorbing most of the tire iron’s jolt this time. Raising my leg, I kick him hard, and he screams as his kneecap makes a popping noise. I grab his arm as he falls, yanking the tire iron out of his hand, and I throw it into the pool. I wonder if Paige is going to manage to clean this all up or whether her mother might find the weapons on the bottom when she goes for a morning swim.
Either way, it seems to be over. Trevor sits on the ground, both hands wrapped around his knee, rocking back and forth, as he clenches his jaw tightly under all that pain. Switchblade has disappeared, deciding it’s better to take the coward’s way out instead of getting beaten, and Screwdriver is still surrounded by a few girls, all of whom hold toilet paper to his head to try to stop the bleeding. I’m not sure where Metal Pipe went; I haven’t even thought of him since he went flailing into the pool. He must have slunk off into the night to lick his wounds.
I turn toward Chael and he doesn’t look happy or surprised. I think he knew the outcome before I even started fighting. It makes me that much more frustrated to know that he’s been following me, that he seems to know so much about me. I can’t be that transparent. My life is not that simple. He seems to know what’s going on inside my mind.
In the distance, the sound of police sirens hits my ears. Paige must have found a way to finally call the cops. It’s almost comical; the audience starts moving in all directions. Suddenly no one wants to be seen here.
I see Jesse and move toward him, determined to remind him that he’d better have my money waiting for me Monday morning. But he sees me too and manages to disappear into the crowd before I can get close enough to grab him. I twist around, looking for Paige this time. I’m still mad at her, furious, but at the same time it seems clear that she was just a pawn in Jesse’s game. Her next set of actions will determine if I forgive her. If she dumps Jesse by Monday morning, I may consider it. But if she stays with him, well, that answer is pretty obvious.
But the crowd is too frenzied and by the time I manage to push past everyone, Jesse and Paige have both vanished. I slip around the pool, pushing past drunken idiots who can’t seem to differentiate between running away and searching for their misplaced bottles. One guy stumbles over to the edge of the pool and the beer inside his stomach suddenly joins the chlorinated water. Another girl sits down in the middle of the walkway, her phone in her hand, crying hysterically while trying to dial a number.
Forget this. Time to leave. I turn back toward Chael but he’s gone, invisible in the sea of teenagers. I can’t imagine he’s left yet; I’m positive he wouldn’t leave without me.
I spot Paige over by the back door. She’s leaning against the frame, her perfect face splotched and sweaty. She obviously can’t figure out what she should do first. She’s given up on trying to get people to stay out of her house; now she’s doing her best to block the door. Inside I hear the sound of glass shattering.
She gives me a smile of relief when I approach her. I guess she still has hope that I won’t hate her after everything that’s happened.
“Have you seen my friend?” I ask her. “The guy I was with?”
“You mean the guy with the glasses?”
“Nope, the dark-haired guy. I was standing with him by the pool.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t see him. Faye?”
“What?”
Paige actually flinches, as if she’s afraid I might hit her. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it,” I say. “You want to be sorry, find a way to show me later.”
I turn and head back toward the yard. The police have taken over the front and I can hear someone shouting through a bullhorn. Time to make an exit.
I see Trank. He’s made his way over to the back gate and is scaling the fence. If anyone can worm his way out of a crime scene, it’s h
im. I race around the pool and toward the back. I’m never going to get as good of a chance as this. Might as well follow him and see where he goes.
I jump the fence easily and no one even notices. A few kids are scaling the wood alongside me. The majority are probably stampeding through the living room, trying to get out as fast as possible. I can see the red lights from the police cruisers flashing in the night sky. At least their job is going to be easier now. A lot of the crowd has already managed to escape.
In the alley, I can’t see for certain which way Trank went; he’s camouflaged by panicked teenagers who are trying to disappear before the cops get smart and send a car around to the back. I pick a direction and head through the darkness, hoping it will lead me to Trank. It’s very busy; I pass others cowering behind garbage cans and someone has even managed to break a lock and enter someone’s garage.
I don’t like this area. Even compared to the alleys downtown, it’s too dark without the streetlamps to light my way. I can smell strategically planted flower beds and freshly mowed lawns. These scents are foreign to me. I miss my week-old greasy burger wrappers and drunken-puke–smelling streets. At least there I know where I’m going. Here, I’m blind. Everything is too clean here. There are too many trees and bushes and not enough concrete.
A few blocks away I miraculously spot Trank. He’s heading toward the train station, walking quickly, his head down to avoid being noticed. It’s a bit of a walk still and I wonder if there’s a way to stop him before he reaches the train. It’ll be harder to follow him once he gets back into the city. Everything is dark here. There are very few streetlamps and plenty of trees to add to the shadows. As we get further away from Paige’s house, everything grows quieter too.
The perfect place for revenge.
I start walking faster. The train is still at least five blocks away. A lot can happen between here and there. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my gloves and put them on. First rule of thumb. Leave no prints.