Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (27 page)

The whole cafeteria echoed with the rattle of forks falling onto plates, and then went dead silent. Even Tsarev, struggling to get to his feet, stopped with his muzzle open, staring between the two of them. Then Taric said, “I’m going to kill you,” and covered the ground between them in three long strides.

Sol heard the far-off cry of a teacher, but ignored it, bracing himself. He had time to get out, “Bring it,” and then the coyote was on him, snarling and punching. His eyes stayed fixed on Sol’s, and he moved with alarming speed, his muscular arm as fast and hard as a baseball bat. His scent and breath at the close quarters smelled of meat and rage, and he kept throwing words like “fucker” and “shithead wolf” and “fag” as if they were punches themselves.

Around them, students formed a circle and chanted, “Fight! Fight!” Sol got his arms up against the rain of blows, trying to angle himself in closer so Taric didn’t have as much leverage. He punched back, keeping his arm low, and then grabbed at Taric’s arm to stop the punching. He missed and took a blow to the ribs; grabbed again and slowed the coyote’s arm.

And then Taric ripped at his shirt, and Sol felt teeth in his shoulder—the coyote was
biting
him? He wrenched at the thick tan-furred neck, keeping his own muzzle well shut even in the face of the tempting brown ear in front of it. While Taric tried to keep Sol’s arms pinned, they staggered and shoved at each other, slamming into the table and one of the chairs. The students around them yelled indiscriminate encouragement.

The biting was more annoying than painful, but it was enough of both that Sol twisted his shoulder more and more desperately. Finally, he planted both paws on Taric’s chest and shoved the coyote away from him. They both stood, panting, and Sol, needing to gain any advantage he could, took advantage of the brief respite to lash out.

His punch, a wild, sweeping right hook, missed Taric by a country mile. As the coyote laughed at him, Sol brought his fist back around, and this time, he didn’t miss. The back of his paw connected with Taric’s muzzle in a loud crack, snapping the long tan muzzle to one side.

Taric staggered, looked shocked first and then furious. He leapt at Sol again, muzzle open, and the wolf jumped back reflexively—not quickly enough. Taric’s fist slammed into his cheek just under his ear, knocking him into the table again. He grabbed at the table’s edge to stop himself from falling, and was only vaguely aware that Taric had jumped after him when a tall bear burst between them, shoving them apart.

“Stop it, stop it!” Mr. Fortune held the two of them apart. Sol, his head still ringing and full of rage, launched a kick at the coyote and caught him on the thigh, sending him a step back. Taric renewed his struggle to get to Sol, and Mr. Fortune had to get bodily between them. “I said, stop!”

Another teacher, a lion, joined them and grabbed Sol while Mr. Fortune grabbed Taric. “Principal’s office, both you, right now. Terry?”

Mr. Fortune nodded, keeping one large paw on Taric’s shoulder while the lion steered Sol behind them. Taric swaggered through the cafeteria, though Sol noticed that the strut was particularly pronounced when they were passing Xavy and the other wolves on the team. “Pick a fight with me, will he?” the coyote muttered, and the wolves looked up with wide eyes, first at him, and then at Sol.

Sol spent the next ten minutes replaying the fight and kicking himself for all the things he knew and hadn’t done. Taking advantage of a guy who bites by hitting the head, which is harder to defend. Going in low when you grapple with someone, keeping your center of gravity below his. In the heat of the fight, all the academics of it vanished and there was only instinct and survival.

They both got detention for a week and a lecture about fighting, to which they both nodded and mumbled insincere apologies. “Nice job, Fagson,” Taric said as they walked out of the principal’s office. “Mr. Zerling is gonna kill me if he can’t get me out of it. It’s your fault anyway.”

“Leave me the hell alone.” Sol let a growl into his voice.

“You wanna finish this outside?”

Sol shrugged. “I’m not the one got a starting spot on the team to lose.”

Taric turned and poked him in the chest. “Yeah, well, you’re my backup, so I ain’t worried ’bout losing it.”

“It’s second base,” Sol said. “Don’t take a rocket scientist to play it. He’ll get a backup outfielder in. Maybe Reggie.” The fox who backed up in right field was not very agile, and was generally considered one of the slower players on the team.

“Fuck you. Like he could take my place.”

“Yeah well. Someone will, and it sure as hell won’t be me.”

“Fuckin’ right it won’t.”

And then they split off to their separate classes, and Sol didn’t see Taric again until it was time for detention. Sol passed the stifling, excruciating hour by rubbing his side, watching Taric rub his muzzle, and replaying the fight over and over and imagining Carcy pulling up outside the school with an open door and a smile. Only the tick of the clock and the slow droning of flies against the window broke the silence, coupled with the occasional shuffle of paper when the teacher watching them moved on to the next paper she was grading.

When they were finally released, they ran together to the baseball practice field, jogging at first, and then running harder, teeth clenched. The afternoon was dark already, the air thick with the smell of rain, but Sol drove everything from his mind except the rangy coyote running beside him, then a step in front of him, then two steps.

Sol ran flat out, but Taric beat him to Mr. Zerling by a good ten feet. The older wolf was looking at the thick black clouds overhead and talking with one of the assistant coaches, but they broke off when Taric ran up and launched immediately into his explanation. Sol skidded to a stop a step behind, panting, close enough to hear the coyote’s surprisingly accurate account: “I was just giving him shit, you know, the way we do, and he threw a tomato at me. Couldn’t let that stand.”

Sol stood apart, kept from getting closer by Mr. Zerling’s posture; the wolf was focused on Taric, both ears forward, arms folded. “You need to learn discipline,” he told the coyote. “Getting detention doesn’t help your standing on the team. We need to practice as a team, work as a team. When you’re gone for an hour every day, even just for a week, it doesn’t help. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Taric folded his ears back and lowered his muzzle.

“Right.” Mr. Zerling punched his arm. “Go take some swings. We’ll arrange for you to have some practice this weekend.”

When Taric was on his way, the older wolf turned to Sol. “I’m disappointed,” he said, unnecessarily, since the frown, the tilt of the ears, and the gruff voice said that all for him.

“He left out the part where he pushed a smaller kid down,” Sol said. “And called me a faggot. Again. Is that okay?”

Mr. Zerling sighed, but his ears didn’t come up. “I hated having to bench you. You were a good kid, always did what I asked. But some guys respond better than others. I thought last week, maybe…”

“I stayed ’til it was dark!”

“Yeah, you did.” Xavy and one of the other wolves paused on their way back to the shower, listening from a few feet away. Mr. Zerling didn’t notice them, or didn’t let on that he did, anyway. “You worked real hard. But the thing with your diet, and you didn’t work with the team…you were working for some individual goal. And this team ain’t about individual goals. So I’m suspending you from the team ’til after the Lakeside game.”

Sol gaped. “Suspending…? Like, I can’t even practice?”

Mr. Zerling nodded. “Go get your head on straight, do what you need to do, and you can come back for the last month of the season and the playoffs. You’re a good kid, and you can help the team, but not if you’re getting one of my best players into fights and detention.”

Suspending me from the team won’t stop me getting into fights in the cafeteria, Sol wanted to say. How does that make any sense? “Fine,” he said, ears flat.

Mr. Zerling looked down at his clipboard. Sol waited a moment, long enough for his watching teammates—ex-teammates—to disperse. Then he walked away, because there wasn’t anything else to do.

“Hey.” Xavy had caught up with him, the other wolf trailing a bit behind.

“Oh, hey.” Sol slowed and turned, wary at first, but Xavy didn’t look aggressive; his ears were up, and he wasn’t frowning. Nor was his friend.

“Sucks,” Xavy said. “I mean, you gettin’ suspended.”

Sol shrugged. “I guess.”

“Taric’s a good player, but he’s kind of an asshole. The guys were sayin’ they didn’t think you’da been the one to take him down.”

“I didn’t.” Sol laughed, and winced. “My face is still sore.”

“Yeah, but still. Y’know, he wants to be one of the wolves.” Xavy laughed.

Sol didn’t laugh, though he knew Xavy was trying to tell him that he would always have what Taric couldn’t. That should have made him feel better. Instead he thought of Jean’s account of the luncheon with the wolf and fox, their contempt for him so clear that even in his own writing, he could not completely conceal it. “Thanks,” he said to Xavy, because that seemed like the right thing to say. “He’s a better player, so you guys are gonna have to deal with him. Sorry I…” He touched his lower lip where it was bitten. “Sorry I couldn’t stay better this year.”

Xavy patted his shoulder. “Look, I don’t get the whole vegetarian thing. But, uh, I guess we’ll all be headin’ off to whatever after this, so…good luck with it.”

“I’m not gonna be standing with a goat on a street corner screaming about how ‘Meat is murder.’” Sol grinned, which only caused him a little pain. “Just…I didn’t wanna do it anymore.”

“Sure, okay.” Xavy still didn’t understand, but at least he was polite about it. “Hey, you coming to the Senior Night party next month?”

“Uh…” Next month, Sol hoped to be in Millenport. “Probably not…I’ll see what Meg wants to do.”

Xavy nodded. “You should come. It’ll be good. Take care, huh?”

Sol raised a paw and watched Xavy hurry off to the locker room. The idea of not practicing was so strange to him that he wondered for a moment if Mr. Zerling would let him use the batting cages for forty-five minutes as long as he didn’t talk to the other players. He snorted; what would be the point of practicing? To get better at something he wasn’t ever going to do again? By the time his suspension was over, he’d be four hours away and out of school.

Once he was around the corner of the school, he kicked small stones along the path, and then chased after them as though they were ground balls he had to retrieve. He lunged after them, grabbed them, fired them into the school’s yellow brick wall. He had just kicked a small pine cone when footsteps hurried up behind him, so he came to a dead halt and then walked forward as though he’d just been walking the whole time, while the pinecone skittered to a stop on the grass. Then Sol caught the smell of fox, and relaxed before Tsarev came up level with him.

Sol turned to greet him. Tsarev was smiling, but his ears were partly down and his smile looked a little bashful. “I did not get to say thank you,” he said all in a rush.

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Sol waved a paw. “He had it coming. I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“You wanted to throw tomato? Because cafeteria only serves every two weeks. Is a long time to wait.”

“No, I meant…” Sol paused, and then stopped, folding his arms. “Are you being funny?”

Tsarev’s ears lay back flatter. “Is not funny?”

“No,” Sol grinned, and then rubbed his cheek. “I mean, yes, it is funny. It just hurts when I smile.”

“Sorry!” The fox cheered up. “I will try not to be funny.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“So.” Tsarev looked back at the field. “You are not practicing, not meeting girlfriend?”

“No. Meg’s at home, and…I’m suspended from the team.”

“Oh.” The fox looked away from Sol, down at the ground. “For fight? For defending me, you are suspended.”

“Yeah, but…I mean, no. I wanted to do it. And you were sticking up for me, anyway.”

Tsarev heaved a sigh and slumped forward. He rested his elbows on his thick legs. “Is difficult. Fate, I think? Fate is difficult.”

Sol suppressed the urge to put an arm over the fox’s broad back. “Fate’s a bastard.”

“I am sorry to ask about the otter,” Tsarev said. “Your girlfriend. I believe you, of course.”

“Thanks.” Sol stuck his paws into his pockets and turned the corner to the front of the school. There was nobody there, would be nobody there for at least half an hour. He leaned against the painted yellow bricks and let his tongue hang out of his muzzle. It felt good in the still, warm air, under the thick, low clouds. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“Your girlfriend does not matter?” Tsarev stood near him.

“Baseball.” The faint shouts of team practice echoed from behind the school. Sol closed his eyes and leaned his head back, suppressing the pang in his chest. He might miss baseball, but it didn’t miss him. “I’m getting out of here.”

“At the end of the year.” The fox tilted his muzzle. “Yes?”

“Next week.”

“You will not finish school?”

“What’s the point?” Without baseball, Sol felt as though the last artificial tie holding him to the school had blown away. The yellow brick walls, the big silver letters reading “Richfield High School,” who cared whether he left them in two months or in one week? They held nothing for him anymore, no friends except Meg, no use, no happiness, nothing.