Good. This is good. Let’s keep it this way.
“You okay?” Zina asks, tugging at my arm. She smiles at me and my tension melts away, if only a little.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
“There she is!” a girl with hot pink bangs cries out before charging up to Carrie. I expect to see her deliver a Missy-style tackle-hug, but she stops short, seizes Carrie by the hand, and drags her onto the dance floor.
“That would be Ashlyn?” I ask Sara.
“That would,” she says.
“Your friend’s a lesbian?” Zina says.
“She’s not,” Sara says. “I am.”
“So is Carrie’s date,” I add.
“Oh, okay,” Zina says. She clearly also “gets it.” Man, do I feel out of the loop.
We wind up sitting with Sara’s LGBTQ group. She makes a lengthy round of introductions. I immediately forget half their names, but take note of the fact that when Sara introduces me, I receive friendly greetings and nothing more. Stress levels dropping...dropping...
“First order of business is to get a snack and something to drink,” Zina says. “After that, I expect to spend a good part of the night on the dance floor with you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and we head out in search of the buffet table.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Zina says as we skirt the edge of the dance floor, which has grown in area since we arrived. “You’re acting like you expect to be ambushed by snipers.”
“Remember when I told you I’m not popular?” Zina nods. “I’m a little nervous that’s going to bite me in the ass tonight.”
“Really?”
“No. I’m a lot nervous. I normally don’t give a crap what these kids think of me. I mean, high school’s only five-point-oh-seven percent of your life, and it’s not like I expect to see any of these people again after graduation...”
“Five-point-oh-seven percent? Where’d you get that number from?”
“Average life expectancy for a US citizen is seventy eight-point-eight years, you’re in high school for four years...actually, it’d be less than that if you count the time in days rather than full years, and adjust for gender differences since women live longer than — I’m sorry, I’m babbling.”
“Yes, you are, but I get it. You’re worried some jerkface is going to give you a hard time and embarrass you in front of me.”
“Yeah.”
She takes my hands. Hers are dry and cool and soft. Mine must feel like damp sponges.
“I don’t care what they have to say. I make my own judgments about people, and I think you’re a sweet guy.” She checks me out head to toe and smiles in satisfaction. “A sweet guy who cleans up real nice. Are you blushing again?”
“No. I’m not. Shut up.”
Zina laughs. She pulls at my hands, gently drawing me toward her, down to her level. Her lips part.
Oh boy.
“Steiger?!”
Oh, CRAP.
“Hey, buddy!” Angus Parr says, a catcher’s mitt of a hand slapping down on my back, right between my shoulder blades. His hand slides up to the base of my neck so he can grab me and give me a shake. “What’re you doing here?”
“Angus, back off, man,” Gerry says from somewhere behind me. He appears on my right, one arm slung possessively around Amber Sullivan’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go.”
“What? Just saying hi to my good buddy Matt,” Angus says, his voice thick and slow and stinking of alcohol.
“You reek of booze, man,” I say. Gerry hastily shushes me and, with a jerk of his head, indicates Mr. Dent nearby, scanning the gym for any signs of trouble. At least someone here is doing his job.
“All right, Angus, you’ve said hi, now let’s go,” Gerry prods.
Angus ignores him and zeroes in on Zina. Or rather, her cleavage. My hand involuntarily balls into a fist. “And who’re you, sweet thang?” he says. “Wait, are you here with Steiger?”
“I’m here with Matt, yes,” Zina says.
“Whah, dude, all right!” Angus booms right in my ear. “You better be tappin’ that tonight or I’m going to be seriously disappointed in you!”
The angry heat of humiliation rushes up my body and explodes from my shirt collar like an erupting volcano.
“Angus. Let’s go,” Gerry says. Angus scowls, and for a brief moment, I swear he’s going to throw a punch at Gerry.
Angus snorts, throws his hands up — whatever, the gesture says — and lumbers off into the crowd. Gerry throws what appears to be an apologetic look my way before following Angus at a respectable distance — close enough that he can keep an eye on his friend, far enough away that if Angus gets snagged by a staff member for stinking of alcohol, he can change course and pretend he doesn’t know the guy. That’s the kind of “friend” Gerry is. Personal experience speaking.
“Look at it this way,” Zina says, slipping her arm around mine. “The worst is over. It’s all uphill from here.”
“I’m holding you to that,” I say.
Zina makes good on her vow.
Angus and Gerry disappear for the night, leaving Zina and I to tear up the dance floor. Well, mostly Zina and I. At various points in the evening, I find myself dancing with Carrie, Sara, Carrie’s date, and I think I might have danced briefly with one of the guys from Sara’s LGBTQ group. It was crowded out there.
My contingent decides to call it a night at ten thirty, which gives me plenty of time to get Zina home before curfew, thus endearing me to her parents and clearing the way for future dates. And yeah, I am thinking ahead to our next date.
Actually, I’m thinking ahead to kissing her goodnight.
After Sara says her goodbyes and Carrie receives a chaste kiss on the cheek from her date, we head out. The cool night air is like a refreshing blast of air conditioning after being in that hot, stuffy gym all night.
“That was so much fun,” Sara says as if it were a revelation — which it might be. She’s never been to a school dance before.
“I thought I was a dancing fool, but Ashlyn...whew,” Carrie says. “That girl is unstoppable. I’m going to all the school dances with her.”
“That squeal of delight you just heard?” I say. “Ashlyn.”
“Um...is it me, or are we being followed?” Zina says.
I look over my shoulder, and no, it’s not her; we are being followed — by half the people who were at the dance, by the looks of it.
“Oookay,” Carrie says. “Something’s definitely up.”
We discover exactly what’s up when we cross the parking lot to find Angus pacing back and forth in front of my car. Gerry’s there too, talking to Angus and gesturing frantically. From this distance I can’t tell if Gerry is trying to talk Angus down or fire him up. Amber, who’s sitting on the trunk of my car like it’s a bleacher seat, points me out to Angus as I approach.
“You ratted me out, you son of a bitch!” Angus roars as he storms up to me.
Before I can respond, our parade disperses. The kids swarm around us, creating a wall of bodies that turns the parking lot into a small arena — and Angus and I are the gladiators.
“What? What are you talking about?” I say.
“You told Mr. Dent I’d been drinking,” Angus says, his volume starting low and rising with each word. “I got thrown out of the dance ‘cause of you, and I’m probably gonna get suspended! I could get thrown off the team!”
“I didn’t say anything to Mr. Dent, or anyone else,” I say. “I didn’t have to, because you absolutely stank of alcohol. I can still smell it you.”
“Yeah, right,” Angus growls. “I bet you got me kicked out because that little slut there —” He jabs a finger at Zina. “— was ready to dump your sorry ass and hook up with me!”
“Oh, please,” Zina says.
“Angus, come on, man,” Gerry pleads. “Don’t do this.”
“Shut up, Gerry!” Angus slurs.
Carrie grabs me by the arm and pulls me to t
he edge of the circle. “Matt, you cannot fight Angus,” she says into my ear. “You’ll annihilate him.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I say over my shoulder, hesitant to take my eyes off Angus for one second. I’ve seen him bully kids since grade school, and I know how he operates. He’s not above sucker punching a guy. “I don’t want to fight him.”
“Get back in there!” someone shouts. One of Angus’s jock buddies shoulders Carrie out of the way and shoves me back toward Angus. I catch a glimpse of the desperation on Sara’s face. I know what she’s thinking: if she still had her powers, she could end this mess before it went any further.
“I’m sick of you, Steiger,” Angus says. “Sick of your stupid face, sick of your smart-ass cracks, sick of you walking around like...like you’re...like you think you can...”
“Use your words, Angus,” I say. A voice in the back of my head tells me to shut up, I’m not helping. Unsurprisingly, it sounds like Carrie.
“I’m going to kick your ass, you little turd,” Angus says. “I’m going to curbstomp your stupid face, then I’m going to show all three of those sluts of yours what a real man looks like.”
This is fourth grade-level mockery. This is amateur hour material. This is the lamest of lame attempts to get under my skin.
Dammit, it’s working.
“What’re you going to do? Huh?” Angus says, pushing me.
Here we go. This is a classic Angus Parr opening gambit: two relatively light shoves, delivered one-handed to the chest, followed by a third strong shove that, in most cases, knocks the target to the ground. It’s intended to humiliate weaker souls and send them running, or fire up his chosen victim and goad him into throwing the first formal punch of the fight. That way, Angus can claim the other guy started it. He’s weaseled out of a lot of detentions that way.
Push number two. “Come on, wuss, do something. Come on.”
Angus winds up for number three and puts his whole body behind it.
It’s almost too easy.
I sidestep, pivoting clockwise. Angus, expecting resistance, stumbles forward as his hand finds nothing but air and shoots past me. His arm is right there, waiting for me to grab it. My right hand locks around his wrist, my left plants on his shoulder. I pivot again, and Angus crashes to his knees, hard, but that’s not what causes him to cry out in agony. That would be me sliding my left hand onto his elbow and applying pressure while twisting and pulling back on his forearm. He can’t get up. He can’t reach me with his free arm. I own him.
“BACK OFF! Back off or I swear to God I’ll rip his arm off and beat you unconscious with it!” I roar as one of his football buddies steps toward me, ready to tag in for his bro. I increase the pressure on Angus’s elbow. He screams. The guy backs away. I lean in close so only Angus can hear me. “You’re sick of me? I’m sick of you. I’m sick of you bullying kids, I’m sick of you bullying me...it ends now. You’re going to pick your sorry ass off the ground and you’re going to leave and you are never. Never going to say another single friggin’ word to me. Got it?”
I give him a five count to answer. He doesn’t. I motivate him.
“GAAAAAAAH! YES! I got it, I got it!” he cries. I let him go and step back, expecting the big moron to jump to his feet and take a swing at me.
Go on. Do it.
Angus, wisely, stumbles away. The crowd parts to let him pass. Gerry, Amber, and several of his friends chase after him.
“Show’s over, people,” I say to the crowd, which has already started to thin out. They leave in dead silence, as if they’re trying to sneak off unnoticed. Several kids back away, refusing to turn their backs to me, like I might lash out at them next. They’re scared of me. I see plain, naked fear on so many faces.
Including on Zina’s.
8.
Zina refused to let me drive her home. She went back to the school to wait for a cab. I tried to call her Sunday and got her voicemail. She never called back. There was no mention of the dance, good or bad, on her Facebook page.
I spent Sunday in my room replaying the night — not because I expected to pinpoint some pivotal moment when everything went sideways but because that’s what I do: I obsess.
After I got to school Monday, Stuart and Missy grilled me at my locker expecting to hear, in Missy’s case, a heartwarming tale of young romance and, in Stuart’s case, a detailed report on which base I got to.
I don’t remember exactly what happened. I was telling them about the early, good parts of the night when someone grabbed me and spun me around. Hot, electric pain exploded across my face, like a lightning bolt striking my nose and bursting through the back of my skull. The world went white, then black. People started shouting. One of the voices aimed curses at me. When my vision cleared, I found myself staring up at the blurry face of a teacher asking me if I was okay.
I vaguely recall someone lifting me off the floor. Next thing I know, Mr. Simson, the school nurse, is waving a penlight in my eyes and asking me a bunch of questions — simple stuff I know the answers to, like my name and what day it is, but my mouth won’t let me say anything other than “Uhwhuh?”
While I’m relearning how to form real words, the school calls my dad in. He enters the nurse’s station, rushes up to the examination table, and gently lifts the icepack resting across my nose. He recoils in horror.
“What the hell happened?” he demands.
Mr. Dent is kind enough to answer for me since I don’t have the slightest idea. “Matt was assaulted at his locker by another student. Apparently, Matt and a boy named Angus Parr —”
“I know who Angus Parr is,” Dad says.
“They had a little run-in after the school dance Saturday night. Angus picked up where they left off this morning. He’s been removed from the building by police, and I assure you, we will take the appropriate disciplinary measures.”
Dad fumes silently for a minute. “How bad is it?”
“He definitely has a broken nose,” Mr. Simson says, “and I believe he’s suffered a mild concussion. You should take him to the hospital to be sure.”
Dad takes me, and Mr. Simson called it: one broken nose and one mild concussion, the result of Angus punching me in the face so hard my head bounced off the locker behind me. A doctor resets my nose, which is a million times more painful that having it broken — I drop an F-bomb so loud I literally woke up two patients under mild anesthesia — and prescribes for me some heavy-duty painkillers. He tells Dad to make sure I rest for the next few days and keep an eye on me for lingering symptoms — persistent and/or worsening headache, disorientation, listlessness, radical changes in sleeping habits, stuff like that.
Dad takes me home, helps me inside, and deposits me on the couch. He offers to stay home, but I’m not interested in having him hover over me all day. Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue, and he heads back to work.
Before I left the hospital, the doctor debunked the myth that someone with a concussion shouldn’t fall asleep. That’s a good thing because a few minutes after Dad leaves, I nod off and don’t wake up again until someone knocks on the front door. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings well enough to stand.
“Matt?” Carrie says through the door.
“Dude! You in there?” Stuart shouts.
“Coming,” I shout back. My entire head vibrates. Ow.
I must be hallucinating. Carrie and Sara are standing on my front porch next to Stuart and Missy.
Nope, they’re real. Carrie confirms her reality when she gasps at the sight of my face and carefully hugs me.
“Oh my God, you look horrible,” she says.
“Thanks. Love you too,” I say.
They file in, splitting into their factions: Carrie and Sara on one side, Stuart and Missy on the other.
“Jeez, dude,” Stuart says, marveling at my face. “Angus nailed you good.”
“I know.” It comes out as I doh. “I was there.”
Standing is exhausting. I shuffle back to the co
uch and flop.
Missy sits next to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “You can never get punched again,” she says.
“I’m fine with that.” I’b fide widdat. I sound like I have an epic cold.
“Gerry caught me at my locker after school. He wanted me to tell you he’s sorry about what happened,” Sara says. “He said Angus has been acting up more than usual lately — getting drunk and stoned a lot, picking fights, that kind of thing.”
“Mal told me at lunch Coach Fowle already booted Angus from the football team,” Stuart says, “and word on the street is he’s going to get kicked out of school, too.”
“Good.”
“Right?”
“Hey, look at you two, talking again,” I say. “Look at us! The Hero Squad, back together again for the first time! We’re all in the same room together, and all it took was for me to get my face caved in. Should’ve done it sooner. Wooooo, go me.”
I slump over, suddenly wiped out. Is this from the concussion or the painkillers? Whatever. I just want to go back to sleep.
“Matt, you look wiped out. You should maybe take a nap or something,” Sara says. I mumble in agreement.
I don’t remember them leaving. The next thing I know, I’m jolted awake by the sound of Dad coming home. I try to sit up, but a sudden head rush drops me right back onto the couch. My stomach twists, and I fight the urge to vomit. God, this sucks.
“Your mother will be home in a bit,” Dad says. “She’s stopping by the store to pick up some soup and crackers for you, since the doctor said you might be feeling nauseous.”
“Good call,” I say. “And it’s nauseated, not nauseous.”
“You’re being pedantic. Must mean you’re feeling better.”
“It means no such thing.”
“As soon as you’re up for it, you’ll need to talk to my lawyer.”
“Huh? For what?”
“For the lawsuit.”
“The what?”
“The lawsuit,” Dad says, carefully enunciating the word. I’m concussed, Dad, not stupid. “I’m going to sue the little punk for all he’s worth.”
Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups Page 21
