by Vox Day
He was hoping Derek didn’t want to game today; his stomach was rumbling and the strange-smelling aromas drifting up to Senior Hall from the kitchen were actually kind of appetizing. He checked his pocket to make sure he had the change to pay for a hot lunch, and walked down the west staircase. Progress was slow, though, as a cluster of students had gathered halfway down the stairs, peering out a large window set into the exit door that led out towards the soccer field.
“What’s going on out there?” he heard somebody asking.
“There’s gonna be a fight.” The high-pitched boy’s voice cracked in mid-sentence. “It’s that senior, Peterson. The little dude.”
Brien raised his eyebrows. Kent getting in a fight? It seemed too good to be true, since he usually picked on people who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fight back. People like I used to be, he thought bitterly, glancing at his wrist. Although he always loathed the crowds of people who gathered like a flock of vultures every time it looked as if a fight was breaking out, he couldn’t keep himself from following the crush of underclassmen as they rushed outside, sensing blood. He justified his actions with the thought that if somebody did beat up Kent, he’d hate himself for missing it.
But by the time the crowd got to the large oak tree that spread its branches over the mesh fence that protected the soccer fields, Brien knew there wasn’t going to be a fight. Not much of one, anyway. Kent Peterson was there, surrounded by a small circle of girls and boys, most of whom were eagerly egging him on, although a few girls, less avid for bloodshed, were averting their eyes, and one or two brave souls even dared to urge restraint. What froze Brien’s heart, though, was the desperate, hunted look in the familiar eyes of Peterson’s victim, a slender boy nearly six inches taller than the curly-haired soccer player.
It was Derek. He held his fists up awkwardly, almost reluctantly, as if he knew they weren’t going to do him any good. His posture was defensive, shrinking away from Peterson’s arrogant chin, which Kent held up pugnaciously, as if it was a weapon. Already heavy with fear for his friend, Brien’s heart sank when he saw how Derek looked wildly around the savage circle, looking for an avenue of escape that just did not exist. He knew the encircling students would interpret his friend’s fear as cowardice, and whatever sympathy they might have held for him was irretrievably lost.
Then Derek’s eyes met his, and for just a moment, the look of panic was replaced by a flash of recognition. Brien nodded at his friend, then gritted his teeth and started to step forward. But Derek, correctly reading his intentions, shook his head. His fate was already sealed; there was no point in sacrificing both of them to the crowd’s bloodlust and the scorn that would inevitably follow.
“So you wanna fight, huh,” Peterson stuck his chest out and pushed forward, his hands at his sides. “Go ahead and hit me, fairy boy. What’s the matter, you scared now?”
“I don’t want to fight you, Kent.” Derek’s voice was low, and Brien had to strain to hear him.
“You were talking pretty big before, Wallace.” Peterson’s beady-eyed glare was withering in its scorn, and his words dripped with contempt. “Put your money where your mouth is, come on, take a swing at me! Go ahead, I’ll even give you the first shot. Do it!”
Derek didn’t say anything, he simply refused to even open his mouth. The crowd murmured angrily at his lack of reaction, disappointed that the fight appeared to be fizzling out. Peterson clearly sensed their mounting irritation, and, always the showman, raised his hands above his head and turned in a circle.
“First he wants to fight, and now he doesn’t. You know why that is?” He shouted as he played to the crowd. “He’s got a big date with his faggot boyfriend tonight and he’s afraid he won’t look pretty for him!”
With impeccable precision, Peterson spat a monstrous gobbet of gooey green spit into Derek’s face just as he finished his theatrical turn. It was the disgusting spittle, not the silly taunt, that pushed Derek over the edge.
“Derek, no!” Brien shouted, seeing that it was a trap, but he was too late. Derek’s fist had already shot out, seemingly of its own volition, and struck Peterson just below his right eye.
It was not the hardest punch Brien had ever seen anyone throw, but there were years of repressed hate behind it, and the blow staggered Peterson. The watching students roared with excitement and approval, and for a second, Brien thought Derek might actually have a chance. But Derek, for all of his years of heroic role-playing, had no instinct for real fist-to-fist fighting. He did not step in to hit Peterson again and finish him off as the little brown-haired bully reeled, instead, he stood motionless, staring at his fist as if it had taken him by surprise.
It was a bad mistake. Peterson was a bully, but unlike most bullies, he was also a born fighter and there was not a cowardly bone in his body. In seconds, he had recovered himself, and with an audible snarl, he launched himself at the taller boy.
It was hard to see exactly what was happening in the crush of the crowd, but Brien thought he saw Derek land a single, awkward blow on the top of Peterson’s head before being knocked off his feet as Peterson slammed into him. The two combatants rolled over several times, grappling desperately, before Kent managed to get on top of Derek and throw four or five hard punches at his face. All of them landed squarely, and when Peterson drew back his fist after the last blow, his hand was red, covered with blood.
Several girls screamed with fear and disgust, but the sight of blood only served to inflame the rest of the crowd.
“Get him, Kent,” they were yelling. Hit him, kill him, smack that bitch up, hundreds of variants of the same barbaric theme. Hit him, hurt him, beat the shit out of him! It was like a feeding frenzy, and the mob’s shining, eager faces made Brien want to throw up.
“Hit him again,” a freshman girl shrieked, her voice squeaking with excitement. “Hit him again!”
Peterson, his own face flushed with excitement, obliged her by throwing one more punch that crashed into Derek’s face with a sickening thud that sounded like a baseball bat hitting a steak. The terrible sound made Brien reel, shocked with horror, and it must have distressed some of the other students too, because a black-haired senior quickly stepped into the circle and grabbed Peterson’s arm, which was already drawn back to deliver another blow.
“Come on, Kent, that’s enough,” he said as he pulled Peterson off Derek’s unmoving body. “Leave him alone, it’s over. You won, that’s enough.”
“Let go of me, Case!” Peterson struggled furiously with the taller boy until the boy let him go. “You saw it, he hit me first!”
“Yeah, I saw,” the taller boy said. “And you kicked his ass. But it’s over, Kent. It’s enough.”
“No, it isn’t,” Peterson spat venomously, his handsome face still twisted with fury.
Before the black-haired boy or anyone else could stop him, Peterson turned and kicked Derek savagely in the ribs. Derek, apparently still conscious, grunted sharply, then curled up on his side and began to moan with pain. His nose was bloodied and his bruised left eye was already starting to swell, but worst of all, Brien could see tears starting to run down his beaten friend’s cheeks, trickling through the spattered blood to fall silently on the ground.
Silently, but not unnoticed.
“Look at him,” someone jeered. “He’s crying like a baby.”
Peterson nodded with satisfaction, satiated at last. There was a slight swelling under his own right eye, and Brien hoped desperately that it would eventually blacken on him. It wasn’t enough, but at least it might be a mild consolation for Derek.
“Now it’s over,” Kent pronounced, and he smiled cruelly before turning his back on his victim and walking back into the school.
The crowd began to disperse as well, and Brien waited a little while before going to Derek, giving him some time to compose himself. By the time he kneeled down next to him, Derek was already sitting up, his face a smeared mess of bruises, tears, and blood. One hand rested gingerly on the side that Pe
terson had kicked, the other shielded his eyes from Brien’s view.
Brien thought at first that Derek was still crying, but he should have known better. There were no tears left in Derek’s eyes, no pain or humiliation, just an empty hatred that burned with all the furious fires of Hell. He searched for words of sympathy or consolation, but there was nothing to say. Wordlessly, he extended a hand to his friend, and just as silently, Derek took it. He stood up, and together, they walked slowly towards the school.
It wasn’t over, Brien thought, as his sense of sick helplessness began to transform into anger. Peterson was wrong. It wasn’t over yet. Quite the contrary. Things were just getting started.
Chapter 21
River of Fire
If culture is an aristocratic phenomenon—the assiduous, solitary, and jealous cultivation of an inner life that tempers and opposes the vulgarity of the crowd—then to even conceive of a culture that is shared by everyone, produced to suit everyone and tailored accordingly is a monstrous contradiction.
—Umbert Eco, Apocalyptic and Integrated Intellectuals: Mass Communications and Theories of Mass Culture
Jami sneered at her brother, who was watching her closely with an expression of mixed concern and grudging approval. She’d cleared the third blue screen and she knew he was sweating now! Exhaling slowly, she rolled her tense, aching shoulders and rubbed her wrist as the music of “The Chase” bleeped cheerfully from the oversized speakers of Christopher’s new stereo. Do-do-dee-do-dee-do…. Fifty-five hundred more to beat Christopher and her personal high score, and all she needed was one yellow banana to do the trick.
Oops. The board was pink, but unfortunately, this wasn’t the banana board. This was the first time she’d gotten this far, and she’d forgotten about the pear. Darn it!
“Down to your last guy, sis,” Christopher taunted her. “You’re gonna choke.”
No, I’m not! She ignored his feeble attempt to psych her out and focused all of her attention on the glowing screen in front of her. Her fingers barely touched the keyboard, pressing left, down, and right as Ms. Pac-man chomped her beribboned way through the pink maze, sweeping through the dangerous box of death at the bottom before Blinky and his little friends could zoom down to block the only exit. The ghosts were moving fast now, much faster than pokey Ms. Pac, and Jami had to be careful not to get caught on one of the straightaways.
Thump… thump… thump…
She heard the bouncing fruit sound she’d been waiting for just before catching sight of the green pear moving slowly down the left side of the maze. The orange ghost, what was her name, Sue? She was over there too, but she was zooming towards the ghost pen in the middle of the maze. But instead of heading immediately towards the left, she send Ms. Pac zig-zagging right, drawing the eager ghosts toward her like a round yellow magnet.
As they rushed towards her en masse, the thought of going down a power pill occurred to her, but she dismissed it. That wasn’t going to work on this board. The ghosts changed too fast on this one, and it wasn’t until the next screen that their blue state would hold long enough for you to rack up serious points on them. Playing it safe, she quickly ducked through the exit and appeared on the other side. Gulp! The pear disappeared and she was two thousand points closer to her goal. Yes!
“You’re losing it,” Christopher intoned sorrowfully. “Should’ve gone for the corner.”
“As if,” she muttered grimly.
She juked left to evade the light blue ghost, then held her breath as Blinky whizzed past the corner she was momentarily trapped in. That was lucky! Now for the power pills… she scooped up two without once attempting to chase a blinking ghost. No time for that now. Ms. Pac chomped furiously, desperately trying to summon the second pear. The maze was three-quarters cleared when she heard the noise again.
Thump… thump… thump…
She heard Christopher swear under his breath and grinned as she dodged Blinky again, cut around one more corner, and nearly broke a fingernail as she excitedly jammed her middle finger hard against the up arrow. The pedal was to the metal, and the pear was hers! Gulp! She raised her free hand in the air and pumped her fist, but her shout of triumph died in her throat. Pinky had cut stealthily through the exit and she ran smack into the folds of the wretched little ghost’s pink bedsheet.
Whee-oo-whee-oo-woo….
Ms. Pac-man disappeared with a sad little pop, and Jami slumped in her brother’s comfortable chair, burying her head in her hands. No! She was close, so very close to winning. She felt drained, as if this one game had been her one chance at arcade glory, and she had burned up a year’s worth of luck and skill.
Behind her, Christopher sighed deeply.
“Nice job, James,” he reluctantly praised her. “You win.”
What? She raised her head and looked at the screen. There it was, in beautiful pulsating white text at the top of the screen. 53380. Fifty-three thousand, three hundred eighty points, sixty more than she needed to beat the fifty-three thousand, three hundred twenty that her brother had racked up with his one guy.
“Yes!” she leaped out of the chair, raising her fists to the sky. “I win! I win, I win, I win!”
She did an impromptu dance, excitedly beating her heels against the thick blue carpet before breaking smoothly into her formal victory dance, shaking her hips and her shoulders like an electrocuted chicken. All the while she jabbed her fingers triumphantly at Christopher.
“I am the winner,” she sang happily. “The only winner! You are the loser….”
Christopher just snorted and folded his arms as he waited for her to finish her happy little celebration. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, of course, but she always loved to see the conflicting emotions flashing across his face. Irritation, annoyance, chagrin, and amusement, they were all there, as always, until finally the latter won out and she saw him start to smile. They burst out laughing together, and when he held up a congratulatory hand, she high-fived him enthusiastically.
“Say it,” she demanded. “You have to say it now!”
Christopher grinned and made a grandly theatrical bow.
“All hail Jami, Princess Pooyan and Everqueen of the Arcade!”
Jami raised her hand imperiously and made a half-turn accompanied by a Barbie-doll wave, graciously accepting the plaudits of her imaginary subjects. Then she stopped and frowned at her brother.
“Hey, you left out the part about my beauty and total perfectness!”
“Perfection,” he corrected her. “And I never agreed to that. Forget it, you’ll have to beat me even up to make me say that.”
She eyed him, calculating.
“I’ll spot you ten thousand.” she offered.
“No, forget the points,” he responded. “That’s boring. Give me three guys and you’re on.”
“Two!” she demanded. He didn’t need three and they both knew it. He was just negotiating.
When Christopher nodded his agreement, she quickly added:
“And you have to say it at school. Out loud, and in front of people.”
Christopher rolled his eyes and shook his head. But he wasn’t telling her no, he just didn’t think she could really pull it off. Which was pretty unlikely, she had to admit. Of course, it didn’t cost her anything to lose, so it was pretty much a win-win situation as far as she was concerned.
“Oh, why not,” he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s never going to happen. Deal.”
She couldn’t resist one last push as he offered his hand.
“And Rachel Jensen has to be there too.”
“No way!” he jerked his hand back as if he’d just been burned. But his emphatic rejection was fast, way too fast, and he blushed as he realized she’d just caught him out.
Before she could rag him on it, though, the door opened behind him, and Holli, in her usual pre-date state of near-complete undress, stuck her head in the room. Her hair was done, but her cheeks were red with that freshly-scrubbed look that Jami knew precede
d either bedtime or a twenty-minute session in the bathroom, and she was wearing nothing but a big yellow towel. Good thing she didn’t have to go, Jami thought. At least she didn’t think she had to… doggone it, now she had to.
“What are you doing, Jami?” Holli complained. “We’re supposed to leave in half-an-hour, in case you forgot, and you haven’t even started getting ready yet. Oh, and Christopher, I forgot to tell you. Eric told me that you can come too.”
“Really?” Jami said in near perfect stereo with her brother.
“Cool,” Christopher said, looking pleasantly surprised, until Jami poked him in the chest.
“I hear Rachel's going to be there, stud puppy.”
“So?” Holli said, puzzled.
“So he’s in luuuv!”
Jami mockingly drew out the last word, and Christopher punched her in the shoulder. Not hard, of course, but that didn’t stop Jami from shrieking and dropping to the carpet as if she’d been struck by a sledgehammer. She was a good diver; if the five-meter field dive ever became an Olympic sport, she’d give the Italians a good run for the gold. Facial expression was big, but the real trick was letting your whole body go limp. It was lame, of course, but it was a skill you needed if you wanted to play center-mid.
“Penalty!” she shouted. “Red card! Vicious and totally unprovoked, ref, make the call!”
Despite her impatience, Holli laughed and raised both hands, holding up two imaginary cards and nearly losing her towel in the process.
“I say you both get yellow. Now hurry up, Christopher, because I told Eric you were driving us to Jason’s and he’s meeting me there.”
Holli tightened the towel and disappeared from the bedroom, and moments later Jami heard the bathroom door slam. Darn, darn, darn, there goes your chance, Jami thought as she grabbed the nearest post of Christopher’s bed and pulled herself to her feet.