"She's not so hot," I lied.
Just then the music stopped, and Lizard and Pritchett walked over to us. Neither seemed pleased to see me—which wasn't surprising.
"Margaret, I've been looking all over for you." Lizard grabbed Magpie's arm and pulled her away from me like I was dangerous. Darting a dirty look at me, Lizard whispered something in Magpie's ear that made them both giggle.
While the girls traded jokes, Pritchett looked me up and down, his eyes narrow. "Fine-looking jacket. Smith."
"Glad you like it," I said, matching his sarcasm.
"Maybe in two or three years you'll grow into it"
I tried to think of a snappy comeback, but nothing came to mind—probably because Lizard was staring at me like I'd just crawled out from under a rock. A runt a midget, a dwarf, that's all I was to her.
Pritchett sneered down at me. "Tell me something. Smith. Is your father still in jail?"
"No, you jerk. He's in California." In my pockets, my hands tightened into fists. Pritchett was definitely asking for it.
"Oh, so you admit he used to be in jail—him and the deserter both." Pritchett smirked at Lizard. "Great family, huh? Jailbirds, drunks, unpatriotic cowards."
Lizard drew in her breath, but I didn't give her a chance to add any insults. Stepping closer to Pritchett, I showed him my fists. "You better shut your mouth, you SOB. before I shut it for you."
Pritchett grinned. "Don't make me laugh, shorty. I bet you're just as yellow as your brother."
That was all I was going to take. I drew back my fist and punched Pritchett as hard as I could, knocking him flat.
He was on his feet in a second, coming right at me. "You little punk!" he shouted. "You're nothing but poor white trash. You and your whole family."
A space opened in the crowd. Somebody yelled, "A fight, a fight," but Pritchett and I were too busy slugging each other to care.
At first it felt good to hit him, but Pritchett was stronger than I'd thought. Soon he was all over me, pounding my face, my stomach, my eye, my nose. I couldn't keep my guard up, I couldn't get past his. But I didn't give up. I fought like a crazy man, swinging my fists, hitting him when and wherever I could. I swear I wanted to kill Pritchett, I wanted to make him sorry he'd ever seen my face.
By the time the phys. ed. teachers shoved us apart, Pritchett's shirt was torn and his face was bloody. He was still trying to get at me, though, and I was still trying to get at him.
"Who started this?" Mr. Jackson hollered.
"Smith," Pritchett said, breathing hard. "Ask anybody."
Jackson looked at the crowd. The kids nodded. One of Pritchett's buddies said, "Smith knocked Bobby down."
"Bobby was just defending himself," another said.
Lizard started to say something, but Mr. Jackson turned to me, his muscles bulging under his suit coat. Grabbing my arm, he hustled me through the crowd and out the gym door so fast my feet didn't even touch the floor.
"Mr. Mueller will hear about this first thing Monday morning," Jackson said. "I can tell you right now he'll probably suspend you. Smith—and give you a paddling as well. In my class, you'll definitely be running laps from now till June."
Letting me go, Jackson strode back to the gym. When he opened the door, a blast of music came out—"To each his own, to each his own," one of those slow. corny songs Lizard loved so much. Probably she was dancing cheek to cheek with Pritchett again. Maybe they were laughing at me and Stu's stupid jacket. Or making jokes about my family.
I was so mad, I considered going back and punching Pritchett some more, but I figured Jackson would just throw me out again. Besides, I wasn't sure I wanted to risk Pritchett's fists. I'd expected to beat that little snot to a pulp, but I hadn't even come close. I don't know what hurt most—my eye or my pride.
"Gordy, is that you?" Toad and Doug came running toward me.
"Who do you think it is?" I asked. "Santa Claus?"
"Wow, look at your face," Toad said. "I never dreamed Pritchett could hit like that."
"Your nose is bleeding, and your eye's half shut," Doug said as if I didn't know. "You're going to have a lulu of a shiner tomorrow."
"I've had lots worse," I sneered.
Doug and Toad looked at each other. Nobody had to say it. We all knew what I meant—the old man had done quite a few fancy numbers on me in the past. Pritchett hadn't come close to matching him.
"Everyone says Mueller will suspend you, maybe even expel you," Toad said.
"Great, I hate school anyway." I wiped some of the blood away with the back of my hand. "How about Pritchett? You think he'll get suspended too?"
"A big wheel like him?" Doug flung a stone at a streetlight, missing it by a wide margin. "Fat chance."
"Mueller will probably give him a Purple Heart," Toad muttered. "You know, wounded in the line of duty."
Grumbling to ourselves, we started walking home. Overhead, the moon sailed in and out of raggedy clouds. I threw my head back and howled like a wolf. Doug and Toad joined in. When a dog started to bark, we howled even louder.
More than anything, I wished I could hop a freight and go to Oklahoma to look for Donny. If I couldn't find him, I'd just keep going. No more school. No more dumb dances. No more stupid phys. ed. teachers. Best of all, no more Lizard.
16
AFTER DOUG AND TOAD WENT HOME, I WANDERED around College Hill by myself—a lone wolf on the prowl, skulking along in the shadows, killing time till curfew. If I went back to the apartment now, Stu would see my face and know I'd been in a fight, but if I waited till eleven, he just might be asleep. By morning, maybe I'd think of a story to tell him, but I was too tired to come up with anything now.
So I kept on walking. Every time a car passed, I hid my face from the headlights. I was scared Lizard might look out the window and see me trudging along all by myself, nose bloody, jacket torn, shirt ruined. What a laugh she'd get—big bad Gordy Smith, beaten up by a jerk like Pritchett.
If I'd had any money, I would have gone to the Trolley Stoppe Shoppe to play a few rounds of pinball. Just in case I'd missed something, I searched my pockets for the hundredth time—not even a nickel for the phone, though who I'd call I didn't know.
I kicked an empty bottle so hard it flew up in the air and smashed on the pavement. Too bad I couldn't phone heaven and ask Grandma what to do. Not that I really needed to. I knew what she'd say without calling. "Go straight home and face the music"—that's what she'd have told me.
But I wasn't ready to face Stu. So I let my feet take me where they wanted, up one street and down another. Nothing can make you lonelier than being outside in the dark all by yourself, passing houses with lighted windows, glimpsing people inside, safe and warm.
By eleven-thirty, I was too cold and tired to care whether Stu was asleep or not. I tiptoed up the apartment steps and eased the door open. Stu was asleep on the couch, a poetry book facedown on his chest. He'd been waiting up for me, I guessed, and dozed off. His face was as mournful as ever.
I tiptoed past the couch, taking great care to avoid the troll's trucks and cars, and went into the bathroom. One look in the mirror told me Doug had been right about the shiner.
Wincing, I washed my face to get rid of the blood from my nose and lip, but Stu was bound to notice my eye—and my clothes, too. His jacket looked worse than I'd thought, and my one and only dress shirt was spattered with blood. I'd lost the clip-on bow tie, and the knee of my best slacks was ripped. I was really in for it.
Making no noise, I sneaked into my room, rolled Stu's jacket and my shirt into a ball, and stuffed them under my bed—way back in the corner. Barbara would probably find them someday, but at least I was safe for a while.
Just as I slid under the covers, the door opened a crack and Stu peered in. "Gordy?" he whispered.
I sighed like I was sleeping and hid my face in the pillow. Satisfied I was home, Stu shut the door. For a few minutes, he puttered around in the bathroom. Soon the toilet flushed, and I heard him
go to his room. The apartment was quiet then. No one was awake but me—which made me just as lonely as I'd been outside in the dark. Maybe even lonelier.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed Grandma was standing beside my bed, frowning down at me. I tried to tell her how much I missed her, needed her, loved her, but the words stuck in my throat.
"What's going to become of you?" Grandma asked. "Didn't I teach you anything, Gordon?"
I tried again to speak, to say I was sorry, to promise I'd do better, but the words still wouldn't come. My voice box was busted.
Grandma turned her back. I grabbed at her old tweed coat to keep her from leaving, but she was like a cloud—a ghost made of fog and mist. I couldn't hold on to her.
"Don't go, Grandma," I called. "Don't go!"
My own voice woke me. It was six o'clock, Saturday morning, and everybody was still asleep. Silently I slid out of bed, put on my clothes, and left the apartment. I didn't ¿now where I'd go or what I'd do, but I still couldn't face Stu and Barbara.
I walked all over town, up and down the same streets I'd walked last night. Morning frost coated Mr. Crawford's police car windows. The newspaper still lay on the Crawfords' sidewalk. I glanced at Lizard's bedroom window. Her shades were pulled down tight. I guessed she was still sleeping, probably worn out from all that dancing with Pritchett
While I was trudging along Route 1, I found a quarter in the gutter—the first good luck I'd had in a long time. I used it to buy a cup of coffee and two doughnuts at the Little Tavern. I sat at the counter as long as I could, sipping from the cup long after it was empty.
At ten o'clock, the library opened. I was the first person through the door. The librarian gave me a warning look, obviously remembering my last visit. I'd been with Toad and Doug, and we'd gotten a little loud. After a couple of warnings, she'd thrown us out.
Today I planned to behave myself. The library was a warm, quiet place, as small and cozy as somebody's living room. The same picture of President Roosevelt that used to hang over Grandma's radio hung over the card catalog. In the comer was an old green armchair that reminded me of one of hers—soft and kind of lumpy but comfortable. The only difference was the books, shelves and shelves of them, more than any ordinary person would ever own or read—though I'd have liked to try.
I walked up and down the aisles until I found White Fang. I'd already read The Call of the Wild, another one of Jack London's books, so I figured I'd like this one, too. I sat down in the armchair and made myself comfortable.
Although the story was good; it was hard to stay awake. The radiator hissed softly. Pages rustled. People came and went, whispering to each other. I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, I saw lizard and Magpie standing a few feet away, their backs to me. Heads close together, they pulled books off the shelf, whispering and giggling.
"I thought you'd already read Wuthering Heights," Magpie said.
"So? Maybe I feel like reading it again." lizard leaned doser and whispered something in Magpie's ear.
"Oh Heathcliff, Heathcliff." Magpie giggled. "He's soooo bad."
Just then lizard looked in my direction. Hoping she hadn't seen me, I slid down in the chair and held my book in front of my face. The library was the last place on earth she'd expect to find Gordy Smith.
I heard a loud explosion of giggles. Even without lowering my book, I knew they'd spotted me.
"Look, Margaret, it knows how to read," Lizard exclaimed. "It's holding the book right side up and everything."
Magpie laughed so hard she snorted—which made her laugh and snort some more.
"It's a big thick book, too," lizard went on in this silly singsong voice, "with lots of long, hard words. Does it know what they all mean? Or does it have to use a dictionary?"
I kept the book in front of my face and ignored her. If Lizard saw my shiner, she'd probably run straight to Pritchett and congratulate him on the great job he'd done on me.
"Do you always hold books that close to your nose?" Lizard asked, coming closer. "Maybe you need glasses, G.A.S."
My guts felt like somebody'd tied them in knots—the usual effect Lizard had on me. "Leave me alone," I muttered. "Go bother your lover boy Pritchett."
Before I knew what she was up to. Lizard grabbed the book. "Oh, my God," she said, suddenly serious. "Your eye, Gordy, and your lip—did Bobby do that?"
"No, I fell down the steps, you stupid idiot." I got to my feet and pushed past her. Without giving her a chance to ask any more dumb questions, I left the library.
It was almost dark, that lonesome time when a person should be home with his family. The moon floated in the sky just above the treetops, and the street lamps cast a cold light. I was so hungry, I didn't know what to do—I hadn't had a thing to eat since those doughnuts.
I stopped on the comer and thought about going back to the apartment. I'd be just in time for hot dogs and beans, Barbara's idea of a Saturday night treat. But before I bit into my burned weenie, I'd have to answer a zillion questions—about my eye, my clothes, Stu's jacket, where I'd been all day.
I just wasn't up to it. Ignoring my empty stomach I kept walking. I didn't know where I was going or what I'd do when I got there, but I figured I'd think of something.
17
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, I HEARD SOMEONE SHOUT MY name. I mined and saw Toad and Doug running toward me.
"Where have you been all day?" Doug asked. "Stu's called our house at least three times looking for you."
"He called us, too," Toad said. "Didn't you go home last night?"
I lobbed a stone at a stop sign and hit it with a nice loud clunk. If Toad and Doug thought I'd been having a great adventure, let them go on dreaming.
"Are you running away?" Toad asked.
I shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. It all depends on where the wind blows me."
Toad and Doug stared at me like I was some kind of hero—a guy in a western movie, roaming from one town to the next, settling scores along the way. A stranger, always alone.
"But in the meantime," I added, "I'm broke. And hungry. How about somebody treating me to a couple of deathballs at the Little Tavern?"
Doug pulled fifty cents out of his pocket—more than enough—and gave it to me. Turning to Toad, he said, "Show Gordy what you've got in your pocket."
To my surprise. Toad reached into his jacket and dropped three cherry bombs into my outstretched palm. "Where did you get these?" I stared at him, truly impressed. Fireworks weren't easy to come by in Maryland.
"Uncle Herb came by the house this afternoon. He bought them in D.C., but I'm not supposed to set them off till the Fourth of July."
"That's a long time from now," I said.
Doug nodded. "Way too long."
"Firecrackers won't last till summer," I explained. "They'll blow up in your bureau drawer. Or in your pocket."
Toad stared at us. "Just like that? Without even lighting a match?"
"Haven't you ever heard of spontaneous combustion?" I asked.
"We just studied that in science, but..." Toad stopped and bit his lip, definitely worried. It didn't take much to scare him. "What should I do with them?"
"I've been thinking," Doug said. "What if we threw them at somebody's house? Wouldn't that scare the pants off them?"
Toad reached for the cherry bombs, but I closed them up tight in my fist. "Give them back, Gordy," he whined. "We'll get in tons of trouble if we do something like that."
"But, Toad," Doug said, "think of Donny and the toilet at the Esso station. We'll be legends like him."
Toad stuck out his lip. "They're my cherry bombs, my uncle gave them to me, and I want them back."
"Do what you like. Auntie Toad," I said. "Go home or come with us, but we're keeping the cherry bombs."
While Toad whined and moaned and fussed, Doug and I tried to decide whose house to hit. Pritchett's was my number one choice. But just when I almost had Doug convinced, a door opened and somebody yelled, "You boys put one foot on my pr
operty and I'll call the cops."
We'd been so busy arguing we hadn't noticed we were standing in front of Whitman's house. Doug looked at me and I looked at him. Giving a loud whoop, the three of us ran down the streetcar tracks. The crazy professor would be our victim.
"He'll know you did it, Gordy," Toad said. "He blames everything on you, even stuff you didn't do."
Toad was right. Ever since I'd hit him in the mouth with a snowball, Whitman had been calling Stu and accusing me of evil deeds I'd almost always had nothing to do with. I'd trampled his rare azalea bushes, for instance. I'd broken a branch off his precious French lilac. I'd made a crank phone call. He even swore I'd stolen his wife's underwear off the clothesline.
I wasn't guilty of any of those things except maybe breaking that stupid branch, which was totally accidental. But as far as Whitman was concerned, I was Smith the bad guy, Smith the juvenile delinquent, Smith the kid he wanted shot on sight.
"Like Doug said, we'll be legends," I told Toad. "Nobody's ever forgotten the day Donny blew up the toilet at the Esso station. They won't forget us, either."
Though I didn't say it, I was thinking about Lizard. She'd hear about the cherry bombs. Maybe she'd be impressed. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe it didn't make any difference. Like everybody else in College Hill, Lizard thought I was a rotten, no-good kid. Stealing records, fighting, getting thrown out of the dance, disappearing all day, throwing cherry bombs—I was heading for reform school right behind Donny, and I couldn't have cared less. Hadn't everybody always known I'd end up there? Maybe I'd finally make Stu happy and end up a well-adjusted crook.
"Let's go to the Little Tavern first," Toad said, still stalling. "You said you were hungry, Gordy. I wouldn't mind having a deathball myself. As a matter of fact, I—'
"My belly's not as important to me as yours is to you." I poked the flab around Toad's waist. "The Little Tavern can wait."
With Toad complaining every step of the way, we sneaked back to the Whitmans' house. A light shone from the kitchen window, but the rest of the place was dark.