Authors: Sarah Cross
Dull Boy (8 page)
Back at my seat, I manage to squeeze some juice out of my apple. Okay, actually, I obliterate it by crushing it with my fist.
“Are you okay?” Darla says.
Yeah—I’m gonna pretend she didn’t notice. I’m sure her friends destroy fruit all the time. “Fine,” I say, wiping up the pieces with my lunch bag.
My heart’s racing. I don’t want to get into a fight here. I don’t want to lose my cool and snap, then pay for it later—with 120 years of incarceration.
When the bell rings, I try to make a swift exit, but Butch and his bonecrushing posse are waiting for me by the door.
“We’ll finish this after school,” Butch says. “And if you punk out and don’t show . . .” He crunches his knuckles in his fist. “You’ll regret it.”
He doesn’t even wait until the teachers are out of earshot to threaten me. Mr. Nerdly’s right there by the door, busy chewing on his thumbnail, then pulling his hand back to examine it, like magic marshmallows are growing out of it instead of fungus. What is this guy’s purpose? Seriously?
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.” It’s not like I’m afraid of these guys. But how am I supposed to put an end to this? Show up and let them pummel the crap out of me? Call my mom and get her to pick me up in the middle of it, so I look like a little kid?
Not cool.
One last threat and a clumsy throat-slitting gesture, and Butch and his posse are gone. I breathe. Exhaaaale. Three more hours until I have to deal with that crap.
As I push through the mass of messed-up students, my eyes catch Catherine’s. She’s studying me. No idea why. Maybe because she already suspects I’m an idiot, and today’s spectacle just confirmed it?
I nod like, “hey,” and keep going, moving with the wave of delinquent students into the hall, where the clang-and-bang of lockers meets shouts of, “Ha! You’re gonna get your ass kicked!”
I shrug it off, try to look tough—but honestly? I’m posing hardcore. Because that’s
exactly
what’s going to happen.
exactly
what’s going to happen.
7
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER
the last bell, when the buses have pulled away and most of the adults have jumped ship, I’m standing on the run-down baseball field behind the school, surrounded by the more bloodthirsty half of our screwed-up class. Some of the kids are clinging to the metal backstop, the rest are spread out along the foul line, chanting:
the last bell, when the buses have pulled away and most of the adults have jumped ship, I’m standing on the run-down baseball field behind the school, surrounded by the more bloodthirsty half of our screwed-up class. Some of the kids are clinging to the metal backstop, the rest are spread out along the foul line, chanting:
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Butch and Big Dawg and the rest of the Bonecrushers are closing in. They’re wearing huge toothy grins—they don’t look like they
ever
get in fights with anyone who could actually hurt them. For a second I’m tempted to change that, put a stop to their bullying by showing them what it feels like.
ever
get in fights with anyone who could actually hurt them. For a second I’m tempted to change that, put a stop to their bullying by showing them what it feels like.
But that would open up a whole other set of consequences.
Before Butch has a chance to “bring the pain,” Darla tries to stop the inevitable. She climbs to the top of the bleachers and starts waving her cell phone (which now has a blinking antenna poking out of it) like it’s a conductor’s baton. “Listen up!” she shouts. “You’d better make yourselves scarce, because a
ginormous
robot is about to bust out of those trees and
kill you all
!”
ginormous
robot is about to bust out of those trees and
kill you all
!”
I wince.
A few heads turn toward the wooded lot that borders the school. Curiously, like,
eh, a giant robot?
A bird chirps.
eh, a giant robot?
A bird chirps.
I guess this would be a good sucker punch moment, if I was going for that.
Wind rustles the leaves, but no robot head emerges. The toy-loving cons quickly lose interest.
“I mean it! It shoots laser beams!”
Nice try
, I mouth, giving her a double thumbs-up—right as a huge fist appears in my peripheral vision.
, I mouth, giving her a double thumbs-up—right as a huge fist appears in my peripheral vision.
I dodge out of the way; it’s not my instinct to be a punching bag.
But I’d better learn. Fast.
Butch jams his knuckles deep into my stomach, uppercuts me; he’s wailing on me with these big fat clumsy combos, and I’m taking every hit, doubling over and acting like it hurts—like it’s supposed to. Like I’m normal.
But every punch lands with the intensity of a Nerf arrow. It’s like being in a vicious pillow fight, only more confusing, and scary, because up close their faces are brutish and stupid, flushed with glee as much as rage. They’re getting off on “teaching me a lesson.” Talking trash with their perfect teeth shining in my face.
A year ago, this assault would’ve had me on the ground with two swollen eyes, blood oozing from my nose and mouth. I would’ve winced at every kick to my broken ribs. And the grand finale, the moment that would finally signal “enough,” would come when I had passed out half dead.
That’s what they expect—I can’t believe I almost forgot that.
I’m still on my feet, fake-groaning but bouncing back every time. This could go on indefinitely, until these idiots get tired because this beat-down turns into cardio. And that? Might prompt someone to think about this.
So I wait for the next blow—a pathetic kick from Big Dawg, who can barely get his meaty leg off the ground—and I take a dive, choke on all the kicked-up field dust, curl into the fetal position, and let them kick the crap out of me.
I bite down on my lip to try to squeeze some blood out, squint through a dust cloud to see if they’re buying it, and—
Whoa.
I must be . . .
Imagining this?
There’s a black figure above me on the backstop, on the part that hangs over home plate. She’s crouched like an animal, tangled hair hanging down like a ghost in a horror movie.
She springs, pounces; flings herself through the air.
Catherine. Death from above.
“Oh, shit! Move, move!”
The Bonecrushers hustle, banging into each other in their haste not to be her target.
I roll onto my side just in time to see Catherine slice into Big Dawg. She barely pauses before she launches herself at her next victim.
Meanwhile, Big Dawg can barely speak. The front of his jersey has five long slashes in it like a bear attacked him. Dark red blood is starting to seep through. He touches it with one beefy finger, then he screams, hauls A across the field and through the parking lot and finally into the street, where he just keeps running until he’s out of sight.
There’s a mad rush to safety then. This might be a school full of badasses, but nobody wants to
really
get hurt. Even the hardcore thugs who supposedly take a bullet every other weekend don’t want a piece of Catherine.
really
get hurt. Even the hardcore thugs who supposedly take a bullet every other weekend don’t want a piece of Catherine.
I
don’t want to get in her way right now, which doesn’t explain why I’m still lying here, sucking blood off my lip as the Mary Janes hurry past us shrieking, and the cornered Bonecrushers are offering up their next homemade Sphinx cakes in exchange for their lives. I’m totally neglecting my own safety.
don’t want to get in her way right now, which doesn’t explain why I’m still lying here, sucking blood off my lip as the Mary Janes hurry past us shrieking, and the cornered Bonecrushers are offering up their next homemade Sphinx cakes in exchange for their lives. I’m totally neglecting my own safety.
I’m thinking.
It’s impossible for a human fingernail to slice through flesh like that.
Impossible
—just like lifting a car before you’re old enough to drive it. Or flying. Or getting the crap kicked out of you without a single bruise to show for it.
Impossible
—just like lifting a car before you’re old enough to drive it. Or flying. Or getting the crap kicked out of you without a single bruise to show for it.
Cherchette’s voice pierces my head:
Surely you suspected you weren’t the only extraordinary person in the world.
Surely you suspected you weren’t the only extraordinary person in the world.
Catherine shakes her hair out of her face, scrunches her nose, and flicks her fingers like she’s got something gross on them. Then she blinks and it’s like she’s coming back to herself, shifting from an ultraviolent hurt machine to your typical antisocial girl. With, uh, anger issues. I guess.
The field is even more of a mess than it was before. Smears of blood stain the dirt, and the faint smell of Bonecrusher sweat sours the air. Darla’s standing where first base should be, shifting her backpack from one shoulder to the other, nervous-tick style. I wish she would run.
Catherine turns her attention to me at last. “Were you just gonna let those freaks kill you?”
“I’m a pacifist,” I say, and cough.
“More like a masochist. Even Gandhi would’ve kicked those guys in the nuts.”
I pause a moment to picture Gandhi delivering a swift kick to Big Dawg’s balls. “It was no big deal,” I say. “But, uh, thanks for saving me.”
“Don’t expect it to happen again. You’re lucky I was hanging around.”
“Hey, yeah.” I smile, as I realize: “You waited for me. You knew this was gonna go down, so . . .”
She spits on the ground. “Like hell! I had detention.”
“HA!” Darla claps her hands over her mouth, but it’s too late: the laugh is out. Catherine pivots, nails upturned in a bring-it gesture.
“Something funny, stalker?”
“N-no! Just . . . the idea of you actually showing up for detention . . .”
“Yeah, I’m sure you know a lot about me. Like what? Where I live? Where I work? Where I’m gonna bury you
after I rip your throat out?
!”
after I rip your throat out?
!”
I grab Catherine around the waist as she lunges for Darla, claws primed for homicide.
“Move!” I shout. “Now!”
Darla spins on her heel and runs, backpack clanking like nobody’s business.
“Get your hands off me!” Catherine’s thrashing around so fiercely she’s breaking a sweat. “Let go of me or I’ll—”
“I don’t want to fight with you. I’m making sure you don’t do something you’ll regret.”
This is going to be bad. This is going to be
so bad
. Unless she wears herself out and is too tired to slay me, those nails will be slicing through my throat the second I let go.
so bad
. Unless she wears herself out and is too tired to slay me, those nails will be slicing through my throat the second I let go.
“You need to calm down,” I say. “Or get a scratching post or something. Darla isn’t—”
BAM!
That
was the wrong thing to say.
was the wrong thing to say.
The back of her skull is rock hard. Ow.
“She wants to be friends with you but she doesn’t know how.”
“I don’t
need
friends,” Catherine growls. “And I’m not looking for some stupid
support group
.”
need
friends,” Catherine growls. “And I’m not looking for some stupid
support group
.”
“You’ve already got one, whether you like it or not.” I take a deep breath, prepare to get skull-slammed in the nose. “Me.”
She laughs. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“You have to ask?” I let her go; spring out of the way in case she comes after me. “We, uh . . .” I try to remember how Cherchette put it. “We share a special bond.”
“Tell me you did
not
just feed me that line.”
not
just feed me that line.”
“It’s not a line—it’s true. We both have powers!”
All my frustration, my hope, spills out in that moment. I feel like I just handed over my future and now I have to wait to see what she’ll do with it.
I count my heartbeats. They’re thudding in my head like a metronome, marking the split seconds she spends staring at me, her expression wide-open and exposed. Scared.
And then it’s gone. Catherine closes up. Turns on her hate face.
“Powers,” she says. “Wow. You really are retarded.”
Great. I finally tell someone the truth about me, and she acts like I’m insane.
“Don’t be like that. We can—I mean, I need someone to talk to about this. You do, too, right?” I’m grasping, following her as she steps back, claws at the ready. She’s
not
interested—I’m only making it worse. But I can’t let go.
not
interested—I’m only making it worse. But I can’t let go.
I saw it in her face. I
saw
it.
saw
it.
“Why would I want to talk to a delusional freak?” She practically spits the last word. Steps around a tangled clump of branches like a dancer navigating a stage. Doesn’t even look at them.
“Because.” I take a deep breath. “You know I’m not delusional. And maybe you’re this badass tough girl, but I doubt you have all the answers. Do you even know why we’re like this?”
Something more than ferocity flickers in her eyes. Does she want to know? Does she
already
know? Whatever it is only lasts a second.
already
know? Whatever it is only lasts a second.
“Don’t
ever
mention this again.” Catherine stalks away and then toward me, jabs a claw at my face, razor-sharp nail an inch from my eye. “And if you start spreading lies about me, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
ever
mention this again.” Catherine stalks away and then toward me, jabs a claw at my face, razor-sharp nail an inch from my eye. “And if you start spreading lies about me, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
“Why would I tell anyone about you?” I throw my hands up. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I have as much to lose as—”
She screams. Clenches her fists so tightly I’m afraid her hands will bleed. “You don’t want me to do something I’ll regret? Then
get out of here
! Get the hell away from me!”
get out of here
! Get the hell away from me!”
I bow my head and bite my tongue. Leave, like she asked me to.
But I’m not giving up.
8
I SPEND THE
whole walk home kicking rocks in the road and cursing. I’m pissed at myself for ruining my first shot at superpowered friendship, for just plunging in without a game plan. First impressions count for a lot; first forced confessions are even trickier. I should have thought of that, should have remembered how freaked out I was when Cherchette approached me.
whole walk home kicking rocks in the road and cursing. I’m pissed at myself for ruining my first shot at superpowered friendship, for just plunging in without a game plan. First impressions count for a lot; first forced confessions are even trickier. I should have thought of that, should have remembered how freaked out I was when Cherchette approached me.
By the time I get to my street, I’m worked up to the nth degree, somewhere between angry (because I’m a moron) and ecstatic. Yeah, I screwed up—but I found someone
extraordinary
today. All I need is another chance.
extraordinary
today. All I need is another chance.
Catherine will chill out once she realizes I’m not her enemy, and then . . .
Um, why is there an Aston Martin in my driveway?
I circle that beautiful creature like a jackal who just discovered a dying zebra and can’t believe his luck. Did my dad lose his mind and buy an Aston Martin to soothe his midlife-crisis-having heart? Like: “I’ll be damned if my son’s going to bankrupt us, I’ll do it myself”?
The car’s totally immaculate: no crappy gym bag in the back, no dirt ground into the carpet. Leather interior, ice-blue paint job—this is a car for James Bond, not my dad. I keep looking over my shoulder, like the rich dude who broke down in our driveway will be back any second, and is gonna bitch me out for touching his car.
I tear into the house, yelling, “Dad! Did you buy an Aston Martin?” I think about warning him that my mom’s going to kill him, but I want him to take me for a ride first.
The last person I expect to see is Cherchette. She’s on her hands and knees in front of our TV, all tangled up in electrical cords and A/V cables. She’s wearing leather boots and a tight white skirt with a slit up the back.
I, um, yeah.
I, um, yeah.
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