by Michael West
“Cool,” Mick commented, impressed.
Sean nodded in agreement. “What was on the menu?”
“I don’t know,” Danny told them. “He bought two fancy microwave dinners from the Speedway, then he had her order first. Whichever one she picked, he ate the other one. Then his mother serves them like a waitress and then ... ho ... then he plays this mix tape he made for her, and they spend the rest of the evening dancing and making out.”
Sean smiled. “Nice.”
“Tell me about it. Of course Deidra calls Nancy up and starts goin’ on and on about the whole thing. So then Nancy’s on my back for weeks: Did you hear what Paul did for Deidra? Why can’t you do something romantic like Paul?”
Mick laughed.
Danny shot him an indignant glance. “Shut up. It ain’t funny.”
“So what’d you do?” Sean asked.
“I got her some flowers and some nice bubble bath.”
“Bubble bath?”
“Yes. It wasn’t Mr. Bubble. It smelled like violets or some shit.”
Mick laughed again, and this time Sean joined in.
Danny just nodded, his lips tightening until they were nearly white. “Just wait ’til you morons get girls. Then you’ll see what I’m talkin’ about. It’s not all kisses and coppin’ feels. It’s fuckin’ work bein’ in a relationship.”
“Did you just use the word relationship?” Sean cracked through his laughter.
“Poor baby,” Mick managed.
Danny stopped, still nodding. Mick had never had a girlfriend, and Sean had never kept one long enough to be considered part of a couple. Danny had been dating Nancy for a year. In the minds of their friends, and the whole school for that matter, they were now Dannyandnancy, as if it were one name and not two, just as Paul and Deidra were now Paulanddeidra, inextricably connected. Even after a breakup, the name stuck and you would catch yourself saying it before you remembered it was now Paulanddeidra, not Robbyanddeidra. When Mick and Sean lost their identities and became part of a couple, their laughing would stop.
“I gotta go piss,” Danny told them; he dropped his pack to the ground and walked off into the green.
Mick took the opportunity to get off his feet. He slowly made his way to the ground, his joints popping as he moved. The tape in his Walkman had run out a while back, so he took a moment to find a suitable replacement. The Notorious cassette was at the top of the pile in his backpack. He slid it into the deck, looking at the field as he did so.
Skip was out here somewhere.
The thought made him grow cold despite the heat. Without thinking, he let his eyes drift to Danny’s pack on the ground in front of him. The knife was there. He remembered holding it, the texture of the grip, the weight, the comforting heft of it as it slashed through the leaves.
When he tore his gaze from the pack and returned it to the corn, he saw Skip Williamson standing there. He wore torn white jeans with the symbol for anarchy drawn across the leg in black marker. The leather jacket he wore in the halls of Harmony High was absent, revealing a sweat-stained shirt that clung to his broad-shouldered, muscular torso. The shirt was made to look like the label to a can of Raid, the slogan altered to read “A.I.D.S. Kills Fags Dead.”
Skip looked at Mick with disbelief, his shoulder-length hair dark and clumpy with sweat, his face glistening. He rolled his eyes at the sky. “Fu-uh-ck!”
For a second, Mick thought he was daydreaming, then he looked over at Sean for confirmation. When he saw his friend’s alarmed expression, Mick’s face drained of all color and he nearly shit his pants. He turned his eyes back to Skip, his lips moving to form a single, faint word: “Go.”
Williamson looked momentarily confused, then his lips twisted into a sneer, a Billy Idol grin that held a malicious kind of joy. He grabbed Mick by the collar, hoisted him to his feet.
Sean’s glance moved nervously from Skip, to Mick, off into the field, then back to Skip. “Leave him alone!”
Skip jerked his head, his gray eyes wide and manic. “Wanna make me?”
Sean stared at them, his mind reaching back to grade school, back to the jungle gym of their youth. In those days, “Skip” had been a friendly boy named Josh Williamson. They’d all played together at recess, pretended to be Godzilla, Gamera, and Rodan; they climbed that metal frame as if it were the tallest skyscraper in Tokyo, screeching and roaring before they broke character and laughed. But something had happened during the summer between 8th grade and their freshman year. Josh Williamson became “Skip.” He traded sweaters and corduroys for leather and heavy metal band T-shirts; started smoking, then started smoking pot. Some thought he’d snapped, that some “other personality” had taken over and possessed him. But Sean thought that the boy had made a conscious decision; if Josh wasn’t going to get the attention he wanted through grades or sports, “Skip” would get it through fear and intimidation.
Skip made a fist, but before he could deliver the punch, Danny bolted from the corn. The football player grabbed Skip’s shirt and tossed him to the ground where he landed in a cloud of dust.
“You better save that hand,” Danny said. “After graduation, you’re gonna need it to pump my gas.”
“The Powderpuff King.” Skip’s eyes jerked up to meet Danny’s stare, his mouth a thin line. Fields had been awarded the title at last night’s game, the result of student voting. The way Skip said it, however, you would have thought it was a dubious distinction. “I should have known the Nerd would never go out without his Jock for protection. Isn’t that what the coaches teach you, Fields? – wear your jock for protection?”
“Call us whatever you want, fucker,” Danny told him. “It won’t change the fact that you’re a loser, and it won’t stop us from kicking your ass.”
“Three against one?” Skip’s face flushed. “Go ahead. I’ll let everyone know what kind of shits you assholes really are.”
Danny shook his head. “I told you before: when you mess with him, you mess with me. That means just me.”
A hint of the Billy Idol sneer returned to Williamson’s lips. There were no teachers here to break up a scuffle, no threat of expulsion. It was just the two of them, face to face in the corn. He liked his chances. “Go for it.”
Danny held up his hand and waved his fingers, beckoning Skip to throw a punch. “You first.”
Sean and Mick watched, their mouths open, wordless and dry as Skip rose to his feet. In a fair fight, Danny had the advantage of size, but Skip could be mean, not just everyday callous mean, but crazy mean. Freshman year, Skip had found a kitten in his yard. He scooped it up, took it inside, and actually stuck it in a microwave. It might have been another lie of the “telephone,” if not for the fact that he’d taken Polaroids of his crime. Skip had shown them to all of his pot-headed friends. Now they hung in his school locker, gory warnings for anyone that dared cross him. Against someone that depraved, Sean and Mick doubted any fight would be fair.
Skip danced like a prizefighter, his hands fisted. “I’ve been wanting a piece of you, Fields.”
“Yeah, I know which piece.”
Skip’s eyes thinned; he lunged forward. Danny backed away, caused him to stumble as his fist caught nothing but air. Whirling around, Skip threw a blind punch into Danny’s bicep, wincing at the solid contact. Danny reached out, grabbed the collar of Skip’s shirt, and pulled him back down to the dust.
Skip’s gray eyes blazed. “We gonna fight or dance, faggot?”
“I don’t know. You gonna put up a fight?”
Williamson scrambled back to his feet, lunged at him, off balance. Danny wrapped his muscular right arm around Skip’s windpipe and pulled him upright. Williamson fought and scratched, he tried to grab a fistful Danny’s hair, but he couldn’t reach.
“You know as well as me I could bench press you without breakin’ a sweat,” Danny told him.
“Then why don’t you?” Williamson managed. “You chickenshit?”
“Not my style. We’re out her
e playin’ a game, same as you. But you need to play by the rules.”
“Just get the fuck offa me.” Skip twisted in his grip, his shirt sliding up to reveal the pit of his belly button. He looked uncomfortable in the headlock, panicky. It was as if he actually believed Danny might crush his windpipe. He reached into his pocket and produced something shiny.
Danny released his grip on Williamson’s throat. He grabbed the hand and squeezed it hard.
Skip’s eyes widened and he cried out, “FUCK, LET GO! LET GO! LET GO!”
His voice was filled with agony
Danny’s severe expression surrendered to an instinctive look of concern and he freed his captive.
Skip dropped what he had in his hand, his fingers cut and bleeding. The object landed on the ground with a heavy thud. It was a metal washer rimmed in tiny spears; a Japanese throwing star, a Ninja weapon. You could buy them, and swords too, at the cutlery store in the mall.
“Stupid shit.” Danny kicked the throwing star to Sean, who pocketed it. He then backed away, watching Skip, trying to decipher a hint of his intentions. “You cut bad?”
“No!”
After a beat, Danny’s face hardened. “Now that you’ve found us, you have to play the game with us.”
Skip, for his part, licked his hand. “Bullshit.”
“Hey, you could have hid in the corn until we walked away, but you had to be an asshole. Now you’re stuck playin’ with us.”
“Look, I hate your fuckin’ guts and you hate mine. Just forget you saw me and I’ll leave you faggots alone.”
“We’ve got your little Ninja star,” Danny told him. “If you try and go on without us, you’ll get disqualified and get shit.”
Skip dropped his eyes. “So what, if we win, I gotta split the money with you fairies?”
“I keep my word,” Danny told him. “If we win, I promise you’ll get your equal share, same as the rest of us.”
“This is bullshit,” he protested.
“Yeah,” Danny said, “but I’ve got the money and I say who wins and who loses.”
Mick felt sick. “Does he have to play with us?”
Danny nodded. He didn’t want to play with Skip either, but he had to set the example. If he didn’t follow the rules, why should anyone else? Besides, the thought of Skip Williamson running around the field with weapons turned his stomach. It made sense to keep him in sight. “Those are the rules.”
“You made the rules. You can bend ’em for –”
Danny shot Mick a hot glance and he shriveled from it, holding up his hand. “Your game.”
“It’s the Miami’s game.” Danny wondered why he said that, feeling the cold prickle of gooseflesh climb up his neck to roost in his scalp.
“I guess I don’t have a fuckin’ choice,” Skip said at last, looking at his injured hand.
“Not really.” Danny shifted his eyes to Mick again. “You got any Band-Aids?”
Mick nodded, slowly.
“Give ’em to Skip,” Danny said, and, before Mick could raise his voice in protest, he added, “That way he has something of ours and he stops bleeding all over the fuckin’ place.”
Mick paused a moment, then reached into his pack and produced a metal tin of bandages. He took a few for himself before offering it to Skip. Williamson snatched it from Mick’s hand and started covering the cuts in his own.
“Let’s get going,” Sean said, moving down the row.
Danny watched as Skip applied first aid, then turned his eyes once more to Mick. “You okay, Mickey?”
Mick nodded, his eyes avoiding Skip’s glare. He began to walk away, sliding the headphones back over his ears as he moved.
Skip reached out and tapped them with his fingers. “Whatcha listening to, Mickey?”
“Duran Duran,” Mick squeaked, his face still white as fresh Kleenex.
“Duran Duran,” Skip mocked, then added: “Bunch o’ queers.”
“And what do you listen to, asswipe?” Danny asked as he picked his backpack off the dirt.
Skip tapped his chest with his fist. “I listen to Judas Priest.”
“Ever been to one of their concerts?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they have a huge video screen that showed naked women dancing?”
“No,” Skip huffed.
“Well Duran Duran did,” Danny said, “so shut up about the gay stuff and get moving.”
The Billy Idol sneer dawned again on Skip’s face and he began to walk. “Yes, your Majesty.”
Danny turned away with hesitation, his stride quickening as they moved in the direction of the woods. Had he looked back, Danny would have seen Mick eyeing his backpack with great interest, but he didn’t turn. He kept walking.
They all kept walking, kept playing the game in silence.
Ten
Cindi had not spoken since Nancy had stolen –
Borrowed!
– the cassette. As a result, they’d been making good time. The corn was still all around them, however, and Cindi wondered for the millionth time if she might be having more fun in school.
What Cindi lacked in actual intelligence, she more than made up for in social instinct. She knew how high school worked, and she was more than willing to use the system to get what she wanted. She’d become a cheerleader, had gotten herself elected to the student council, and was chosen as last year’s homecoming queen. She had the right hair, the right clothes, the right body, but she was not so right as to be too ingenuine to pull it off. In the little cosmos that was Harmony High, she had become a star bright enough to pull others into her orbit. Girls wanted to be her. Guys wanted to be in her. But, like her father’s precious lawn, popularity was something that required constant maintenance.
It was for the sake of this popularity that she was now walking her tight little ass off. Everyone who was anyone was playing. It was a necessary evil, like giving the smelly janitor an award for years of service so she could get her picture in the yearbook. And, if she wanted to get into a good school, to marry some doctor, lawyer, or stockbroker with aims of high political office, she needed to keep herself in the public eye.
She took a drink from her canteen, wiped the excess from her lips and shoved it back into her pack. When she returned her stare to the row ahead, she saw Robby Miller blocking their path. “Jesus!”
“Not quite, but thanks.” The grin on Robby’s face was meant to appear pleasant, but it was far too sly.
“What are you doing?” Nancy asked.
“Playing the game.” He tossed her his volunteer fireman’s badge.
Startled, she held out her hands to catch it.
Robby then held out his own hand. “You vixens have some things for me?”
Nancy reached into her pocket and produced the blue ribbon she’d won at last night’s Powderpuff. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Robby took possession of it, then turned his attention to Cindi. “Your turn.”
Cindi snorted and opened her backpack. She pulled out a laminated card and slapped it onto his palm.
He looked at it, disappointed. “Your video rental card?”
“It’s personal,” she huffed. “It’s got my name on it. I’m not givin’ you my panties or anything.”
“Too bad.”
She flipped him the bird.
“And where’s that finger been, She Bop?”
Her face grew warm, mortification smoldering into hot anger. Freshman year, Cindi had discovered the joys of masturbation and made the mistake of telling former friend Amy Walsh, who then made it the talk of the school. The Cyndi Lauper song hit the airwaves around the same time, so some of the guys began calling her “She Bop.” It was one of those awful nicknames that never seemed to die. Like a cancer, it would go into remission only to come back with a vengeance. “How ’bout I start calling you Jerk Off and see how you like it, prick?”
Robby shook his head. “I expected more diplomatic language from a member of the Student Council.”
> “I only use my diplomatic language with people I want something from,” she told him. “And I so want nothing from you, so get lost.”
Robby stroked his chin. “You see, that’s where we have a problem.” He held up her Video Shack card. “Rules are rules.”
“Shit.” Cindi looked ahead and saw where the road was leading. Her eyes narrowed and shot to Nancy. “We’re stuck with him?”
Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Nancy shrugged. “It’s the rules, Cin.”
This only served to deepen Cindi’s anger. These rules weren’t from on high, for Christ’s sake, they were from Danny Fields. And they were downright stupid rules at that. “This game totally sucks.”
“You know,” Robby said, looking Cindi up and down, “some people might say that hair and those short shorts make you look like a hooker. I wouldn’t be one of them, though.”
“Fuck you.”
“Anytime.”
“Okay, enough!” Nancy stepped in and held up her hands. “Cindi, just take a second to deal with him going with us.” Cindi crossed her arms and glared at the corn as Nancy turned to Robby. “And you ... just try not to deal with us at all.”
Robby looked at Cindi, his hand sweeping the row. “After you.”
“Oh no,” Cindi insisted, smiling a sarcastic grin that did not even pretend to hide her anger. “After you.”
He smiled, then turned and walked the furrow ahead of them, the fluorescent yellow stripe on his fireman’s boots glowing as he moved.
“Lighten up,” Nancy said as she pulled along side Cindi in the row. “It’s just a game.”
“It’s a stupid game, totally stupid.” She pulled on her shoulder straps, brought the pack slamming up against her back. “I feel sorry for those Miami Indian kids if this was like the only fun they had all year.”
Robby reached into his own backpack and produced a small pink book. “You girls wanna hear some dramatic readings?”
“What is that?” Nancy asked.
