The Most Important Thing

by Avi

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Charlie, what you’re saying is that there’s a risk, a small risk that something unpleasant might happen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know,” said Dad, his fist punching the air like the boxer he once was, “everything in life is a risk. Is that going to keep you home? What’s important is how you put up a fight. Win some, lose some. Remember my boxing trophy? Wasn’t easy. Trust me, I took some knocks. You know our family motto: Biderbiks don’t cry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My advice, Charlie: go to the dance.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a neatly folded wad of bills, and peeled off a new five-dollar bill. “Have fun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I went to the dance. Everything went fine. I had a good time hanging around Alice.

  When the dance ended, Father Mark, the minister — a short, round fellow who dressed in black, save for his white clerical collar — smiled and shook everyone’s hand as we left.

  Alice — and her girlfriends — were all going to sleep at her house. Her mother’s car was going to be so full of giggling girls, there was no room for me to be driven home.

  “I can walk,” I said.

  “Thanks for coming,” Alice said with a nice smile, which made me feel great. The girls piled into the car, and with a friendly wave, I started to walk home, pleased with myself and glad I’d taken Dad’s advice.

  St. George was located on Montague Street, maybe fifteen city blocks from my home. Even at that hour — ten o’clock — the street was busy. There were restaurants, cafés, a bookstore, a food market, all of which were open. Looking at all the people, I felt connected and walked relaxed, almost jaunty.

  Reaching the end of Montague, I turned onto Willow Street, where my home was. Willow was totally different from Montague: narrow, old, with no stores, just ancient three-story brownstone houses where people lived. Street lamps — ornamented with wrought-iron curlicues — shed weak, wavering light. The tightly parked cars, long, low, and lumpish, seemed abandoned. A few spindly trees, their leaves brittle and brown, cast lacelike shadows on pavement made of irregular cracked slate. After the raucous music and the crowded dancing, the street seemed deserted and extra silent. As I walked, I heard my own footsteps.

  I thought I was the only one on the street until I heard a whistle, low but distinct, like the call of a solitary bird. It seemed to come from behind.

  I paid it no mind until I heard a second whistle. This one came from in front. When yet another came from right across the street, I stopped and tried to see who was there.

  It was too shadowy to see anything. But when another whistle came, my heart began to race. Something was going on, something not good.

  I was four blocks from home. I could run it easily, but I didn’t want to overreact, jump at nothing. I stood there and listened intently.

  Another whistle. This one also came from behind, but closer. Darting a glance over my shoulder, I began to walk fast, but halted when a new whistle came from in front of me. Then a whistle came from the right side of the street. Peering into the darkness, I thought I saw someone crouching behind a car.

  I wanted to run, but didn’t. I was too scared to know what to do.

  Simultaneously, whistles came from three sides. In the gloom, I saw three boys coming toward me. Then more. Since they kept to the shadows, I couldn’t tell how many. Next moment, I realized I was surrounded, and it was too late to run. I stood there, heart hammering, finding it hard to breathe.

  “Hey, kid,” a voice called.

  I spun toward the voice. Right near me, a tall, gangly teenager stepped out from behind a car. I had never seen him before. He wore a black leather jacket with silver studs along the sleeves, which, despite the dim light, gleamed. The sleeves were too short so that his hands dangled white, ghost-like. Then he held up his right hand, fist toward me, a kind of salute, so I could see his knuckles. He had blue tattooed letters that spelled out H-A-T-E.

  No matter which way I looked, more boys came out of the darkness. Maybe a dozen. They walked slowly toward me, sauntering. As my stomach knotted and I panted for breath, I recognized one or two of them from the dance. Some were tall. A few were short. Some had sideburns. One or two appeared younger than the others. Two had lit cigarettes in their mouths, the burning ends glowing red. Forming a circle around me, they stood staring, nobody speaking, nobody smiling. In all my thirteen years, I had never been so frightened.

  “Hey, kid, enjoy the dance?”

  I peered around to see who had spoken.

  “Over here, kid.”

  I turned. It was the boy in the studded black jacket. His face was narrow, his eyes small.

  “Hey, kid,” he said, “I asked you if you enjoyed the dance.”

  “Wh-what?” I stammered.

  “The kid’s a moron,” someone else said. Others laughed. The laughter sounded forced.

  “I’m asking, you have a good time at the dance?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  “Got any money on you?”

  I reached a hand into a pocket, took out a dollar bill and a few coins. “That’s all,” I said, my palm up.

  Someone stepped forward and snatched the money away. Two coins fell to the sidewalk, making tinny sounds. Automatically, I bent toward them.

  “Leave ’em!” the boy snapped. “They ain’t yours anymore.”

  I stood up.

  “Hey, kid — what’s your name?”

  “Ch-Charlie.”

  “Okay, Charlie boy. You want out of this circle, you’re going to have to fight one of us.”

  I felt as if I were sinking into a vat of cement. “What?” I said, though I had heard perfectly well.

  “Said you’re going to have to fight one of us.”

  My stomach clenched. Dad’s words — What’s important is how you put up a fight — went through my mind. I tried to curl my fingers into a fist, but I was too panicky to do more than lift my arms. Instead, I asked, “Why?”

  “The kid asks why.”

  The others boys laughed. That time it sounded real.

  “When you go to St. George, you have to pay your dues. Fighting is your dues.”

  “I — I don’t want to fight.”

  “Hey, Charlie boy, you don’t have a choice. Look around. Fight who you want. Go on. Take the smallest. Don’t matter. Hey, Pinky, you’re the smallest. You fight him.”

  One of the boys — he was smaller than the others — moved out of the circle toward me. His fisted hands were up. He was grinning.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to fight,” I said, and began to back up.

  The small boy kept advancing, prancing, smirking, jabbing the air with his fists, like a boxer entering the ring.

  I retreated farther, only to bump into the boys behind me. Their hands shoved me back toward the center. The small boy darted forward and punched me in the face.

  Without thinking, I put up one hand to protect myself and swung out wildly with my other arm. I didn’t hit anything.

  Next moment, I felt a blow on my head. Exploding lights filled my eyes even as my legs buckled. I fell to the ground. For a small moment, I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes, I saw feet all around me. Afraid to move, I kept still, shut my eyes. I heard: “You hit him too hard, idiot! You could have killed him.”

  “He’s okay.”

  I felt a sharp kick on my leg, but remained motionless. I told myself: Stay still. If they think I’m hurt, maybe they’ll go away.

  Sure enough, someone said, “Hey, he must be really busted.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” one of the kids called. There was the sound of feet running, followed by silence.

  I lay on the cold slate, not moving, eyes still closed, wanting to be sure they had gone. I peeked up. Seeing no one, I lifted my head and looked around. They were no longer there.

  I pushed myself onto my feet. There was some dizziness. My head and leg were sore. Limp
ing, sniffling, I began to run for home, constantly looking over my shoulder.

  When I reached home, I was too shaky to use my key. Instead, I pushed the doorbell. It was my mother — in her purple bathrobe — who opened the door. I almost fell into the house, my sense of relief, and safety, enormous.

  “What’s the matter?” Mom said. “What happened?”

  I pushed past her and went into the living room. Dad was sitting in his easy chair, newspaper in hand. He looked up.

  Almost choking, I cried, “I got beat up,” and collapsed onto the couch.

  Mom, arms extended, started to move toward me. Changing her mind, stifling a cry, she rushed to the bathroom and returned with a damp cloth.

  Dad leaned over me. “You all right?”

  I nodded. As Mom wiped dirt from my face and forehead, I felt my panic subside.

  “What happened?” Dad asked.

  Haltingly, beneath the intent eyes of Mom and Dad, I told them.

  When I was done, Mom said, “Let me check your eyes for a concussion.” She studied me, then backed away, saying, “They’re okay.” Hovering between tears and fury, she said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  Dad said, “Don’t waste your time. It’s too late for them to do anything.”

  All the same, Mom reached for the phone.

  “Molly,” Dad barked, “leave it!”

  “People should know,” she objected, but did not touch the phone.

  Dad pulled up a chair so he could be close to where I was. “Now,” he said, leaning forward, “how many did you say there were?”

  I covered my face with my hands and sniffed. “I’m not sure. Maybe twelve.”

  “Not sure. Maybe twelve. A dozen. And how many did they say you had to fight?”

  There was something in Dad’s voice that made me take my hands from my face and look at him. He was gazing at me, fiercely. I turned away. “Ah . . . one.”

  “One. Look at me,” Dad snapped. “You said one. And what did you do?”

  I forced myself to look into Dad’s eyes. What I saw was anger. I said, “I, you know, kept asking them why I had to fight.”

  “You’ve already told me that,” Dad said, irritation in his voice. “I asked you what you did.”

  “Nothing. I was too scared.”

  “Too scared,” Dad echoed. In his voice I heard mockery.

  I said, “Then . . . they — they hit me. From behind. I think it was with a stick.” I put a hand to the bump on my head as if to prove it. “And when I just lay there, they thought they killed me or something. So I stayed there.”

  “You just stayed there,” repeated Dad. His scorn was stronger.

  “So they would leave me alone,” I said. A wave of nausea swept through me. I turned away.

  Mom said, “Ted, I think it would be a good idea for Charlie to get some sleep. He’s been hit on the head. We can deal with this in the morning. Sweetheart,” she said to me, “do you want a snack before bed?”

  “A sandwich.” I started to get up.

  Dad held out a hand, preventing me from moving. “Wait a minute. I need to make sure I understood. Do I have it right? You just lay there? Pretending you were hurt?”

  Hearing contempt in Dad’s voice, I was filled with shame. “Uh-huh,” I murmured.

  “Why?”

  “Told you,” I said, struggling to keep back tears. “I thought if I got up, they would have . . . you know . . . knocked me down again. Hurt me worse.”

  “Charlie, did you ever consider that you might have put up some fight? Did you?”

  “Dad,” I whispered. “There . . . were a lot of them.”

  “You just told me you only had to fight one.”

  Mom hurried up with a sandwich on a plate as well as a glass of warm milk. “Ted, for God’s sake, leave the boy alone. He’s not in court. He’s been hurt. Frightened.”

  Dad, backing away, picked up his newspaper. He stood there, looking at me fiercely. Then he rolled the newspaper, slapped the palm of his open hand twice, took one more frowning look at me, and stalked out of the room.

  Though I knew the answer, I said, “What’s bothering him?”

  “He’s upset for you; that’s all.”

  I looked at the doorway through which Dad had left. “He’s ashamed of me,” I said, the pain in my chest awful. “For not fighting.”

  “Don’t be silly. I think you should eat a little something.” She brushed hair out of my face. “I’m glad you’re okay. What a terrible thing. It must have been very frightening.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling away from her. I bit into the sandwich. It was tasteless, but I kept eating. As I ate, I kept watching the door in hopes that Dad would come back. Same time, I was scared he would.

  He didn’t.

  When I woke the next morning, I had a headache. Reaching up, I felt the spot at the back of my head. The swelling was down.

  I lay quietly. It felt good to be in bed. Safe. Eyes closed, I thought through what had happened last night. I told myself I didn’t care what Dad said. I was glad I had not fought. They might have killed me.

  All the same, nervous about what Dad would say, I was reluctant to get out of bed. I looked at the clock. It was almost nine. Late. I made myself get up, pulled on jeans and a white T-shirt, and headed for the kitchen, treading lightly.

  A note was on the fridge door: Doing errands. Clean dishes were in the drying rack. The morning newspaper lay on the counter. It had been read. I was relieved that my parents weren’t there.

  I was making up my mind what to have for breakfast when the house phone rang. “’Lo.”

  “Hi, Charlie! This is Jane.” Jane was my mother’s best friend.

  “’Lo,” I said, bracing for the worst.

  “Oh, Charlie, your mother told me what happened last night. I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

  “Thank goodness. You read about these things, and then it happens to someone you care about. Makes me so upset. I’m so relieved you’re fine.”

  “Thanks. Mom is out.”

  “That’s okay. It’s you I wanted to talk to. Charlie, I’m so glad you were not badly hurt.”

  I made myself a breakfast of bacon and eggs; sorted the newspaper; found the sports section; and, since it was Saturday, looked to see what football games were being played.

  The phone rang again.

  “’Lo.”

  “Charlie! Hey, how are you, buddy? Uncle Jess! Your mom told me what happened. You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good for you. Hey, don’t let it get you down. I’m telling you, cities. You should move up here. Nothing like that here.”

  “I might.”

  “You do that.”

  “Want me to tell Mom you called?”

  “Naw. Already spoke to her. It was you I wanted to talk to. Hang in there, buddy! You’ll be fine! Love you!”

  Before I had finished breakfast, I heard from two more of Mom’s friends. Both asked if I was feeling all right. The calls made me feel good. People cared about me.

  Then Arlo called. “How was the dance?”

  I told him what happened both during the dance and after.

  “Oh, man, told you stuff like that happens there,” Arlo said. “You couldn’t drag me to one of those dances. I like living too much. But you’re okay, right?”

  “Right.”

  We talked and made plans to meet later in the day.

  The last call was from Alice. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Arlo called and told me. Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I feel so bad. Wish we had given you a ride.”

  “No, really, I’m okay. Thanks for calling.”

  “See you in school.”

  I felt good.

  I was cleaning up my breakfast dishes when my parents returned.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” said Mom. “How you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I glanced at Dad. He w
as silent. His look was glum.

  “Does your head hurt?” Mom asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “There were a bunch of calls.”

  Dad just stood there, but Mom looked around.

  I listed the callers. I did not mention Arlo.

  Mom said, “What did they want?”

  “They were . . . asking about me. I guess you told them about last night.” I kept stealing looks at Dad, watching his reactions.

  “People need to know,” said Mom.

  “Yeah,” I said, turning to Dad. “But how come they were all calling?”

  Dad looked around sharply. His face was ashen, his eyes cold. “They wanted to know how you avoided a fight,” he said, and marched out of the kitchen.

  Stunned, I stared after him.

  Mom came up to me and held my arm. “Oh, Charlie, he didn’t mean anything. He’s just —”

  Shrugging her off, I said, “He thinks I’m a coward, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course he doesn’t. He’s just very concerned about the whole thing. He’s your dad. He feels he has to do something.”

  “Do what?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  I bolted from the kitchen, went to my room, slammed the door, and threw myself on my unmade bed. Hands under my head, eyes shut, I replayed what had happened the night before. It made me shudder. Then I thought of Dad’s reaction and remembered his motto: Biderbiks don’t cry. Wiping my tears away, I felt humiliated, betrayed, beat up all over again.

  “I’m not a coward,” I said, staring at myself in my mirror. “I’m not. They would have killed me.” My anger began to swell. Seeing Dad’s face in the mirror image, I spun away, made a fist, and punched the wall. I hurt my hand, but the pain in my hand was less than the pain in my heart.

  Over the next few days, our place was tense. And silent. No one talked about what had happened. Dad avoided me. I avoided Dad. I was afraid to say what I was thinking. But the following Tuesday, during dinner, Dad announced that he had arranged a meeting that would be held on Thursday at St. George. “I’m going to do something about these gangs,” he informed Mom and me.

  “Like what?” I asked, feeling uneasy.

  Ignoring my question, Dad turned to Mom. “I’d like you to call as many families as you know. Charlie’s friends, classmates. Tell them about the meeting. I intend to use this incident to organize parents. They should bring their teenage boys. We have to make sure things like this don’t happen again.”