by Anthony Izzo
He nearly messed his shorts when a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, slowpoke. You going to spend all day here?”
Jack turned and looked into Ronnie’s grinning moon face.
“Don’t scare me like that,” Jack said.
“Why are you so jumpy?”
“I thought you were Vinnie.”
“He’s still after you?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
Ronnie bunched up his face in a look of intense concentration. “Hear what?”
“I popped him one at lunch.”
“Holy shit!”
Ronnie’s voice echoed in the hallway, and he clapped his hand over his mouth, as if to contain the curse. Gene the Janitor turned and frowned. He resumed sweeping the hall.
“I went to the library during lunch,” Ronnie said.
“Him and the ugly twins are gunning for me,” Jack said.
Ronnie stared blankly.
“Leary and Cross. That was a joke, son.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“They’re probably waiting for me, so I’ve been stalling.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Ronnie said.
“No reason for us both to die. Vinnie wants to kick your ass as much as he does mine.”
“He’ll have to face both of us, then.”
Ronnie tugged on Jack’s arm, no doubt leading them to imminent disaster.
On their way out of the school, they found Paul leaning against the wall in the front foyer. He looked like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop down on him. The thud of basketballs on hardwood and squealing sneakers came from the gym, confirming that Chris was in practice and could not help them.
“Let’s go. Maybe we’ll miss them,” Jack said.
They stepped out the door and into a raw wind that swayed the skeletal trees on the school’s front lawn. Icicles hung from the statue of Michelangelo, and the snow crunched beneath their feet, a true indicator of the bitter cold. Jack’s cheeks and nose felt as if small pebbles had stung them.
“Colder than a witch’s titty,” Jack said. He was hoping for a laugh out of Paul, who almost always found that line amusing.
They forged ahead, awaiting an ambush.
CHAPTER 8
Vinnie Palermo shoved his hands in his pockets and danced from one foot to the other. He refused to wear a heavy coat, preferring a jean jacket and T-shirt to a dumb-ass winter getup.
“You cold, Vin?” Harry said.
“No. I ain’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Shut the hell up,” Vinnie said.
If Harry didn’t stop with his crap, Vinnie might smack him in the mouth. His chin still hurt from where Harding hit him (a sucker punch if ever there was one), he was shivering, and he wanted a smoke. Usually he swiped a pack of Kools from his mother’s dresser drawer, but he had left before she did this morning. He felt mean enough to put out an eye.
“Where are they? I’m cold,” Leary said.
“How the shit am I supposed to know? They have to come through here. Harding and Fussel both live this way,” Vinnie said.
“Yeah, use your head, Leary,” Harry said.
“Eat me. How do you know they didn’t go around the block?” Leary said.
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?” Leary asked.
“Will you two shut up?” Vinnie snapped.
God, these two could get on his nerves. They were good at fighting, though. Especially Harry, who was crazier than shit. Last summer Harry caught Mrs. Endberg’s cat and the three of them had taken it up on the Conrail tracks. Harry produced an M-80 from his pocket, tied it to the cat’s neck, and lit it. That cat blew into a million pieces, and Vinnie nearly threw up from laughing so hard. Harry was good for some things, even if he pissed Vinnie off once in a while.
“What are we going to do with them?” Leary asked.
“Pound them into jelly. I’m not letting a turd like Harding make me look stupid,” Vinnie said.
“He already did,” Leary said.
“You want to join him?” Vinnie said, making a fist.
Leary shook his head.
“Then shut your hole. Here they come.”
Vinnie, Harry, and Joe crouched in the alley between Jane’s Pharmacy and the Yellow Submarine Pizza Shop. Vinnie periodically poked his head around the corner and he finally spotted Jack walking with Paul and Ronnie.
“This is even better than I thought. They’ve got the fat kid with them, too. The one who threw a snowball at me and Joe.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I want some payback.”
“Me first,” Vinnie said.
Once again, he peeked around the corner, but the three geeks didn’t see him, for it was snowing hard and they were looking back, expecting Vinnie and his crew to ambush from the rear.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Maybe they forgot about it,” Paul said.
“I don’t believe that and neither do you,” Jack said.
“I guess you’re right.”
They waited at the light on Main and Pine Streets, at the end of the school block and leaving the general protection the school gave. The light turned yellow and a red Pontiac screeched around the corner, trying to beat the light and spraying all three boys with slush.
Paul immediately went into panic mode.
“Oh, man. Oh, man. My pants are trashed,” he said, brushing the icy slush off his jeans. Jack brushed himself off as best he could, and Ronnie seemed unfazed, only wiping a small bit of slush off his cheek.
“Why are you so upset? Won’t your mom just wash them?” Ronnie said.
Paul didn’t hear him.
“His dad’s got a thing about dirty clothes. He’ll give it good to Paul when he gets home.”
“Bummer,” Ronnie said.
“What am I going to do?”
“Come to my house. My mom’ll throw those in the wash and dry ’em for you. You can put on a pair of my sweatpants until they dry. Call and tell your dad you stopped at my house.”
“Yeah, yeah. That might work. Thanks, Jack.”
“No problem.”
“What’s with your dad?” Ronnie asked.
“He’s an asshole.”
Jack laughed and so did Ronnie, although Jack had seen a lot of bruises on Paul over the past few years and knew no amount of laughter would change Paul’s nutty father.
“I never had a dad. Died when I was young.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that, but Paul chimed in, “I wish my dad would bite the big one.”
Every second they stayed outside left them more vulnerable, so Jack urged them on by saying, “C’mon, ladies, before the light changes again.”
They crossed Pine Avenue, passed the First Methodist Church, the Art Works shop, and a white house with a massive pillared front porch. They might almost make it home without taking a beating.
The three boys reached Jane’s Pharmacy, whose picture window displays were filled with walkers, canes, a wheelchair, support hose, and a commode. The blue awning that normally hung over the front of the store was rolled up, no doubt to keep it out of the high winds.
“Hey, Paul, do you crap on one of those?” Jack said, pointing to the commode.
“Screw you, Harding. Your mom uses one when she pinches a loaf.”
“Both your moms use that. Then I bet they ask the druggist for hemorrhoid cream when they’re done.”
Jack and Paul stopped, looked at Ronnie, and then both burst into laughter, Paul with his odd tee-hee laugh, and Jack clapping Ronnie on the shoulder. “That was pretty good,” he said. The new kid made a funny, what do you know?
They got to the alley between Jane’s and the Yellow Submarine and Jack knew they were in trouble. He saw them out of the corner of his eye, well aware who it was before his brain could actually register. His feet started to move, but they were on him too quickly. Vinnie grabbed him, and Leary and Cross pulled Paul and Ronnie in
to the alley along with Jack.
“Hey, boys.”
CHAPTER 9
The Brampton Middle Wildcats had lost their last game to Saint Amelia’s by the score of eighty-three to forty-two, and Coach MacGregor was making Chris and the others pay. Chris glanced over at him, standing on the bottom bleacher, the whistle clamped between his teeth like a cigar.
A stitch burned in Chris’s side from the suicide drills MacGregor made them run as punishment for the horrendous loss to Saint Amelia’s. A suicide meant starting at the baseline and running to touch the near foul line, half-court line, far foul line, and far base line. After touching each line, the players had to run back to the starting point before running back down the court. It was MacGregor’s way of pounding a winning attitude into his team.
MacGregor blew the whistle after the last drill, and Craig Cummins sprinted for the garbage can. He leaned over it and wretched, emptying green vomit into the can.
“Layup drills!” MacGregor said.
Chris took his place in line and started forward to take the pass from Robbie Munch, but the stitch came back, forcing him to double over. The ball rapped him in the head and bounced out of bounds. The whistle shrieked.
“Francis. Suicide.”
“Shit,” Chris said.
“Nice catch, Francis,” Munch said. He was the only guy on the team as tall as Chris, but he had cement hands. Dropped passes, got the ball stripped, and couldn’t sink one if the coach hung a hula hoop from the backboard.
“Now, Francis.”
Chris ran his suicide drill, holding his side the whole time.
“Scrimmage!” Tweet-shriek from the whistle. “Shirts and skins.”
Chris stripped off his T-shirt, wiped his brow with it, and tossed it on the bleachers.
The scrimmage started with Scotty Dugal playing point, weaving up and down the court, doing a nifty crossover dribble to beat his man across half-court. Chris staked out a spot down low and posted up against Munch. His back to Munch, he raised his hand to call for the ball, and Scotty fired it over to Danny Popich, the small forward. Danny pump-faked, got his man to jump, and drove into the lane.
Munch shoved Chris, and Chris shoved back.
“You can’t score on me,” Munch said.
“Keep dreaming,” Chris said.
Danny slung a bounce pass to Chris, who reeled it in. Munch slapped at the ball and missed. Chris spun away from him and hit a fadeaway jumper, the net going thwap!
“Nothing but net,” Chris said.
“Don’t come into Ewing’s house again,” Munch said.
“You’re no Ewing.”
Chris’s squad got back on defense, and Munch positioned himself in the key, backing against Chris and ramming his rear end into Chris’s groin.
“Hope you wore your jock,” Munch said.
“You probably liked that,” Chris said.
Lester Banks, the opposing guard, put up a shot and it clanged off the rim, over Chris’s head. Munch grabbed the rebound and raised the ball over his head to shoot, elbows out. Chris moved in to block the shot, and seeing this, Munch swung his elbow and smacked Chris in the mouth.
The whistle again.
“Munch! Francis!”
Chris recoiled from the blow and Munch put the shot up and made it.
“Nice defense, Francis.”
“You cheap prick.”
Chris grabbed Munch’s shirt, yanked on it, and spun him around. Munch stutter-stepped, looking like a crazy break-dancer trying out a new move. MacGregor jogged over from the bleachers and stepped between them.
“You two have been at it the whole scrimmage.”
“He started it,” Munch said.
“I don’t care. The two of you just got six inches until practice is over.”
Chris wiped his lip with the back of his hand, smearing blood on the side of his mouth. Not only did he have a sore lip, but the prospect of doing six inches loomed before him. The two boys took a spot between the bleachers and the gym door, lying on their backs. Chris raised his legs out in front of him, ankles six inches from the floor, and held them until the muscles in his thighs knotted in agony. MacGregor said, “Rest.”
They were allowed to set their legs down for five seconds before holding them up again. After ten minutes of this, sweat dripped down his back and chest. Nothing made practice worse than having to do six inches.
“Hey, Francis, your dad just walked in.”
Check that.
Vinnie gripped his jacket, and Jack jerked and bucked, but Vinnie was too strong. “This is for the cafeteria, jackass.” He fired his knee into Jack’s balls, and immediately Jack wanted to cry and puke at the same time. Vinnie let go and shoved Jack to the ground, Jack cupping his wounded crotch and landing on a pile of broken-down cardboard boxes. Ronnie and Paul weren’t faring much better.
Leary wound up and blasted Ronnie right on the chin, staggering him back against the wall. He hit a patch of ice and slipped, landing on his side and letting out a grunt.
Harry Cross had Paul in a headlock, and Paul let loose with a string of curses. He swung his arms, trying to escape the headlock, but only succeeding in creating new and interesting curse words.
Vinnie stood over Jack, and he wanted to get up and run, but there was no moving as pain radiated through his crotch and lower back. “This is for the other day on the snow pile.”
Vinnie wound up and slammed his fist into Jack’s ear. Jack covered his head with his hands, and Vinnie switched tactics, bringing back his boot and kicking Jack in the ribs. It felt as if his side had caved in.
“C’mon, baby. You gonna hit me now?”
Another kick with the boot, this one not as hard, but still painful.
Leary moved in on Ronnie, who held his chin and staggered, uncertain of his surroundings.
Jack curled himself into a ball to protect himself from any further damage. Vinnie booted him in the ribs again. Jack muttered “asshole” to him, figuring that he was already getting stomped, so why not throw in a few last words?
“What did you say to me?” Vinnie said.
Jack looked up and expected to see Ronnie taking a whipping from Leary, but instead he stood against the alley wall, arms splayed, snorting like a bull ready to charge. He stopped his foot and yelled, “Toro! Toro!”
Ronnie continued his impression of a bull, stopping Leary in his tracks and even causing Vinnie to turn around and say, “What the hell is he doing?”
Ronnie charged forward at Leary, who looked like a pedestrian in the path of a Mack truck. Ronnie lowered his head and shoulders, making little bull’s horns with his fingers, and plowed into Leary’s midsection. Leary fell backward and sprawled over a garbage can.
Jack took the opportunity to rise to his knees and immediately regretted it as Vinnie turned around and saw him, then shoved him back into the wall, where he bumped his head.
“We’re not finished yet,” he said.
Jack put his hands up, prepared for more of a beating, but instead he heard a noise like Oooff! Ronnie the human bull slammed into Vinnie. Vinnie rocketed forward, landing on his belly. Ronnie stood over him, triumphantly wild-eyed, and at that moment Jack believed the new kid thought he was really a bull.
Harry Cross had Paul in a headlock, and Paul’s arms had stopped flailing.
“Okay, you fat faggot. Why don’t you try that with me?” Harry said.
“Gladly, señor.” He snorted and chuffed.
“What in the name of Jesus is going on?”
Ronnie slowed, then stopped, lowering his hands, his bull’s horns disappearing.
“Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this looks like a fight. Can I join in?”
John stood at the front of the alley. He had on a pair of wraparound sunglasses that made him look pretty darn cool.
“Who the hell are you?” Vinnie said.
“That’s none of your business, boy.”
“Don’t call me boy.”
“I’ll call you whatever I please. Don’t you think you should be running along? You all are bigger than these boys and that don’t seem fair to me.”
“Listen, spook—”
“Watch it.”
John stepped toward Vinnie, who flinched and backed up. Even Vinnie Palermo wasn’t stupid enough to mess with a two-hundred-fifty-pound man.
“All right. Let’s go.” He motioned for Leary and Cross to follow him.
The three of them left.
John turned to watch them go.
“Anything I hate it’s a bully,” John said. “You two all right?”
Ronnie nodded and Paul said, “That dumb ape ruined my hearing.”
“I doubt he did. But those ears will be red for a while. Here, Ronnie.”
John produced a clean blue handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ronnie, who wiped his nose, then blew it at foghorn level.
Jack lay crumpled against the alley wall, and he tried to stand but a burning stitch cut into his side and he slumped back down to the ground. His head ached almost as bad as his ribs.
John knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move. I’ll help you up.”
In one fluid move, John scooped him up and the pain was so bad his head spun.
“You’re not supposed to move an injured patient,” Paul said.
“It’s okay. He won’t be hurting much longer.”
What did that mean?
“Am I going to die?”
“Far from it. Matter of fact, you’ll be feeling better in no time at all. She’ll see to it.”
They left the alley, John with the wounded Jack in his arms, Paul following, and Ronnie bringing up the rear.
CHAPTER 10
By late afternoon Emma’s throat had settled down to a low burn and her fever was under a hundred for the first time in four days. She felt well enough to get out of bed and go downstairs, where her mother was spooning chocolate chip cookie dough onto greased sheets.