Stanley glances at them, then turns back toward me. “Look . . . I’m not an idiot. I know something is wrong. I won’t push you if you don’t want to talk about it. But if I said or did something to upset you, I want to know. You—”
More laughter erupts from the table. One of the young men is holding two of the round, knitted hats over his chest like a pair of breasts while the other pretends to fondle them. Stanley grits his teeth.
“Ohhhh, baby!” one boy squawks in a piercing falsetto. The blond boy, meanwhile, is sucking the poof ball on the hat like a nipple.
“You suck dat titty, mista!” the other boy says in a phony accent. “You suck it good!”
More laughing.
“Hey,” the blond says, “you heard this one? So a hot dog and a dick are talking, and the hot dog says—”
“Excuse me,” Stanley calls, raising his voice and turning toward them, “could you keep it down? You’re in a restaurant.”
The young men fall silent, their gazes locking onto us. The blond narrows his eyes. He looks like Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter movies, except for the silver studs in his ears and nose. “You want to say that again?” Draco says. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
“I said—”
I grip Stanley’s arm. “Let’s just go.” Right now, the last thing I want to deal with is a pack of half-grown jackals eager to assert their dominance.
Stanley tenses and opens his mouth as if to argue. Then he drops his gaze, throws some money on the table, and stands, gripping his cane. He hobbles stiffly toward the door, and I trail behind him, positioning myself between him and the teenagers.
“Smart move,” Draco calls. I ignore him.
Outside, in the parking lot, Stanley stumbles. I hook my arm around his, steadying him.
He tugs his arm free, gaze averted. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked. What about yours.”
“The lot was full.” He gestures toward the row of cars in front of the restaurant. “I had to park down the street. It’s another block or so.”
I glance at one of the empty spots nearby.
“Those are handicapped spots,” he says.
“But aren’t you—” I stop, and close my mouth.
“Other people need those more than I do.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye as we keep walking. His car stands at the end of the street, under a lone streetlight. It seems very far away.
His limp seems more pronounced than usual as our feet crunch in the thin, dirty layer of snow. The street is empty, and the silence is thick. Even my own heartbeat sounds oddly muted.
He stumbles again. I hook an arm through his. “Lean against me.”
He pulls back. “I’m fine.”
“Lean against me, or you’ll fall.”
He staggers away, topples against a streetlight, and clings to it for balance. “I’m fine!”
I stare.
He slides down the streetlight, to the pavement. His cane falls to his side. His breath hitches. “God damn it,” he whispers hoarsely, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s breathing heavily, still clinging to the streetlight.
I take a small, hesitant step toward him. He doesn’t look up. Then a steady thump-thump breaks the silence. Footsteps. Behind us.
A tingle of electricity runs through my nerves, and instantly, my body and mind are on high alert. When I turn, I see three forms walking down the street toward us, their faces lost in shadow.
I grab Stanley’s hand and pull him to his feet.
He fumbles with his cane. “Alvie? What—”
I lean closer to him and whisper, “Keep moving.” We begin to walk. I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat, where my keys are, and I hold them so they’re sticking out between my fingers like brass knuckles.
Stanley glances over his shoulder, too. “They’re probably just walking back to their car.” But his tone is low and tense.
I don’t say anything, just grip the keys harder. In my head I make a map of a human body with all the soft places marked in red: the eyes, the throat, the kidneys, the groin. I look around to see if there’s anyone we can call out to for help, but the street is deserted.
The footsteps sound louder now. I look over my shoulder.
The guys behind us are walking faster, catching up. It’s them—the ones from the restaurant, still wearing those stupid poof-ball hats. But they move with the swift, steady gait of predators.
“Alvie, run,” Stanley whispers. He’s breathing very fast. “Don’t worry about me. Just get out of here.”
“Forget it.” My arm tightens on his. The young men behind us are ominously silent.
I grit my teeth.
One of them—the blond, the one I’ve been thinking of as Draco—breaks off from the group and circles around so that he’s standing in front of us. He’s smiling, showing a sliver of white teeth. The two others are still behind us, cutting off our path of retreat. They look so similar, they might as well be twins . . . and they’re both huge, with letterman jackets, thick necks, and thin brown hair peeking out from under their hats. Somehow, they didn’t seem nearly so big in the restaurant.
I press closer to Stanley’s side. My heartbeat fills my whole body, down to my fingertips and toes. I recognize these people. I’ve never seen them before tonight, but I recognize them all the same.
They’re the thousand enemies.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Relax,” Draco says, still smiling. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want a polite, sincere apology.” His accent and vocabulary have a whiff of college—upper middle class—but his shoulders are thrust forward in the aggressive stance of a thug. I wonder if he’s armed.
Stanley’s pulse jumps visibly in his throat. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Great,” Draco says. “Neither do we. So how about it? To show us you mean it, maybe you should get down on your knees first.”
The twins snort laughter, lips pressed together to hide their smiles. They’re trying to look menacing. They’re big enough that they don’t have to try very hard.
“What if we say no?” Stanley says.
Draco raises his eyebrows. “Well, then, we might have to express our disappointment.”
My arm tightens on Stanley’s. He moves in front of me, shielding me with his body.
Draco glances at me. “Who’s the redhead? Does she talk?”
“Leave her alone,” Stanley says, his voice forceful.
“Oh, suddenly he grows a dick,” one of the twins says.
“This your girlfriend?” Draco is staring straight at me. I stare back. “Not bad.”
“Stay away from her,” Stanley says.
“Or what?”
My hand is still in my pocket, gripping my keys. My upper lip twitches and pulls back from my teeth. My head burns, and my brain seems to be swelling. I can feel it pulsing, pushing against the backs of my eyes.
“I mean it,” Stanley says. “If you come any closer, I’ll—”
“What? You’re gonna fight me?” He gives Stanley a hard shove.
Stanley stumbles, then lunges forward. Draco pushes him again, and he reels backward, nearly falling. I catch him, stumbling under his weight. I can feel him shaking with fury as he gasps for breath.
The twins bark laughter. They sound like seals. Something is happening inside my head, like clouds churning, darkness seeping through my brain.
“What do you say?” Draco’s gaze doesn’t leave me. “Want to ditch this gimp loser and come with us?”
I open my mouth. But instead of words, a catlike hiss slides out of my throat.
The twins’ laughter dies down to silence. Draco’s smile fades.
When I was a small child, I would sometimes revert to animal behavior during stressful situations. I learned to control the tendency as I got older . . . but now the impulse wells up from some deep place inside me, and I give myself over to it. I clench my fists and stomp one foot on the ground, growling
low in my throat, the way rabbits will do when they’re warning off another animal.
The twins’ mouths hang open.
I stomp harder, growling and hiss at them as loud as I can, spraying spittle into the air. “Enemy!” I shout. The blood roars in my skull like a waterfall. I snap my teeth together. “Enemy, enemy, enemy!”
Draco takes a step back. “Jesus,” he mutters.
My heart beats faster. It’s as if, suddenly, my strange, shameful tendencies have been transformed into a power.
I hiss and stomp some more. Draco’s smirk slides back into place, but he’s putting on a show now; I can sense his fear, almost smell it. He’s not going to come another step closer. “Well, they say crazy girls are the best in bed,” he says loudly.
On cue, the twins start laughing again. Stanley’s back goes rigid. Without a sound, he charges at Draco and swings his cane, hard. It smacks against the side of Draco’s head.
Draco staggers. “Fuck!” he yelps. Before he can regain his balance, Stanley swings the cane again, smacking him on the other side of the head. Draco’s hand flies to his temple.
The twins are doubled over, howling, as if the whole thing is a show. “Nice job, TJ,” one calls, “getting your ass kicked by a cripple.”
“Shut up!”
I’ve fallen silent, caught off guard.
Stanley’s breathing hard, brandishing the cane like a sword, teeth clenched. He and Draco—TJ—move in little jerks; TJ lurches at him, and Stanley jabs him in the stomach with the cane. “I’m going to shove that thing up your ass!” TJ growls. He glares at the twins. “Help me, you dumb fucks!”
“Nah,” one says, leaning against the other, “this is funny.”
TJ is panting, eyes bugging out with rage. He lunges at Stanley again, and Stanley swings his cane. It whistles through the air, but this time TJ ducks, avoiding it. He catches the cane and yanks, and Stanley staggers. With a sweep of one arm, TJ knocks the cane from his grasp. Stanley swings a fist, and TJ’s head snaps to one side. For a second, they’re both a blur of movement, then TJ kicks him in the stomach, hard.
Stanley goes down, lands on his arm, and cries out. His forehead bounces off the pavement. In the next instant, TJ kicks Stanley’s ribs and stomps on his arm. I hear a crack, and Stanley cries out.
I go cold inside.
The twins aren’t laughing anymore. “Hey, c’mon, TJ. You don’t have to—”
“Fuck you!” TJ brays. “You want to stand there and watch? Watch this.” He raises his boot again, about to bring it down on Stanley’s face, and Stanley curls up, covering his head with both arms.
I lunge. White noise fills my head. Beneath the roar of static, someone is screaming.
When the red curtain lifts, TJ is on the pavement, on his back, gasping and choking. I’m on top of him, my hands locked around his throat, thumbs pressing into his trachea. Crimson stains his pale neck, and I taste blood on my tongue, bright and coppery. His ear is bleeding.
Hands grab me from above, and I snap at them. The twins seize my arms and drag me away.
TJ lurches to his feet and runs away, making sobbing, panting sounds, one hand pressed to his ear. The twins throw me to the ground, then stand there a minute, as if they’re not sure what to do next. One of them looks at me, with my blood-smeared mouth and bloodstained fingertips, and mutters, “Christ. Let’s just get out of here.”
They turn and run after TJ. Their pounding footsteps fade as their forms melt into the shadows.
I climb to my feet, breathing hard. My hoodie is torn. Blood stains my shirt and my chin and my lips, but I don’t know how much of it is mine and how much is TJ’s. I wipe one sleeve across my face.
The road is dark and quiet, painted in moonlight and shadows. Stanley is curled on the pavement, cradling his arm.
Slowly I approach and crouch beside him. He looks up at me. His breathing is labored, his face ashen. “My arm is broken.” His voice sounds oddly calm. Blood soaks through the sleeve of his coat. There’s a rip in the fabric, and something is sticking out through the blood-drenched shirt beneath. Something white and sharp.
Dizziness rolls over me. I close my eyes for a moment, regaining control. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
He shakes his head. “Just drive me to the hospital.” His voice is very soft, his eyes drowsy and heavy lidded. Everything about this seems wrong. There’s a bone sticking out through his skin. He should be screaming, but instead he looks like he’s about to drift off to sleep.
“Stanley . . .”
“Ambulances are expensive.” He smiles—an eerie, distant smile. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He’s not losing consciousness. He’s not bleeding to death; he hasn’t lost that much. It’s just endorphins, flooding his system, numbing him to the pain and putting him into a drug-like trance. But it’s still terrifying. It feels like he’s floating away to a place where I can’t reach him.
“I’ll get the car,” I say.
I sit in the waiting room, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly over my chest. Hours have gone by. As soon as we arrived, the nurses rushed Stanley to the surgical unit to reset the bone. As far as I know, he’s still there.
Someone touches my shoulder, and I jerk upright. A young, bespectacled Asian man, probably a nurse, hovers over me. “It’ll be a while,” he says. “Even after he gets out of surgery, they won’t release him for another day or two.”
“I want to see him.”
The nurse hesitates. “What’s your relationship to him?”
What do I say? How can I sum it up in a few words? My mind is a mass of fog; I try to think, but it’s like trying to hold water in my fingers. “I’m his friend.” As the word leaves my mouth, I feel that I’ve failed Stanley.
“You can come back tomorrow during visiting hours,” the man says. “He won’t be up to receiving visitors until then, anyway.”
I shake my head. “I’ll stay.”
“There’s nothing you can do right now, and he’s in good hands. Go home. Get some sleep.”
I glance down at the red smear on my shirt. If anyone noticed, they probably assumed it was from Stanley’s injury, but the taste of TJ’s blood still lingers faintly in my mouth, despite the countless times I rinsed it out in the sink of the hospital bathroom.
A feeling like that hasn’t come over me since . . .
Will Stanley even want to see me, after what he witnessed?
I leave the hospital, but I don’t go home. I curl up in the backseat of Stanley’s car and fall into a numb, empty sleep. I wake a few hours later, shivering, and turn the heat on.
The hospital windows glow, tiny yellow squares in the darkness. I imagine Stanley helpless and unconscious on a surgical table. White-masked faces. Gloves, fingers stained with his blood.
I stay in the car, drifting in and out of darkness, until morning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When I see Stanley the next day, he’s sitting up in his hospital bed, propped on a stack of pillows, his arm in a fiberglass cast and a sling. He’s pale, the flesh beneath his eyes dark and bruised.
“Hey.” His voice sounds different. It’s like hearing a song slightly off-key. He won’t meet my gaze.
I hang in the doorway, uncertain. “How is your arm.”
“Hurts, but I’ll live. They’re releasing me today. They wanted me to stay longer, but I said no. This is nothing I haven’t been through before. I just want to go home.” He gives me a hazy smile. “Think you could drive me?”
During the drive, he remains silent and withdrawn. Maybe he’s still groggy from the pain medication.
I wonder if he’s going to report the attack to the police. I don’t deal with the authorities if I can help it, but as far as I know, he has no such inhibitions. “What did you tell the people at the hospital. About what happened.”
“I told them I slipped on a patch of ice.”
I clutch my bloodied shirt with one hand, wondering—was it for my sake
that he lied? So I wouldn’t have to deal with the repercussions?
“I owe you one,” he remarks. “If you hadn’t done what you did, I’d probably be in a full body cast instead of a sling.” But still, he doesn’t look at me. He’s disturbed. Of course he is. He just saw me go full primate. He watched me almost bite off a man’s ear.
When we arrive at his house, I help him into his bed and prop up a stack of pillows. I notice him shivering and pull the covers up to his chest.
“Thanks.” The lamp is on, but the room is full of shadows. The model planes stand in rows on his shelf, their colors muted in the dim glow.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
His eyes slip shut, the lids thin and bruised-looking. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I blink. “For what.”
“He said those awful things to you. I was so . . . so angry. But I couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t even a fight, it was a beating.”
That’s what’s bothering him? “It’s over now. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.” His hand curls into a fist. “The world is full of those people. What good am I if I can’t even protect you from them?”
My shoulders stiffen. “I never said I needed to be protected.”
“I know. But I want to. Just for once, I want to make someone’s life easier instead of more difficult. I want to not be a burden. Is that wrong?”
“You aren’t a burden. Stop saying ridiculous things.” The words come out harsher than I intend.
His unsteady breathing fills the room. “Sorry.” He smiles without teeth, gaze averted. “Just groggy, I guess.”
I push myself to my feet. “You should take your pain meds.”
I give him his pills we got from the pharmacy earlier, along with a glass of water, and he swallows them down. “You can go, if you want,” he murmurs. “I’m just going to sleep for a while.”
When My Heart Joins the Thousand Page 12
