Pete followed Russell and Mike to Maple Street. Where the truck turned right, he aimed the Corolla straight ahead. Wiping tears from his face, he scolded himself for being so weak, for not fighting back, for being a sixteen-year-old who still cries.
Pathetic. Just plain fucking pathetic.
The reasoning centers of his brain knew that physical retaliation against Hector was a bad idea. Not only was Hector twice his size, but he was twice as quick. Hector caught flying fists in his enormous paws and blocked blows from baseball bats with his meaty forearms. Pete had seen him do it before, and he had seen the aftermaths of those who had raised his ire. He remembered puddles of blood on hard industrial tile. He remembered Jamie Kirk.
It was no surprise then that the further he traveled from Hector’s house, the better he felt. The dignity that had left his body when Hector punched him gradually returned. Safe in his car, he could look down on his tormentor.
At least I’m not poor. At least I’m going somewhere in life, namely college. And when I’m pulling in two hundred thou a year and you’re still living in Riley, working the soft-serve at Dairy Queen, then I’ll be the one on top, not you.
He could actually envision himself returning to Riley ten years down the road and saying something along those lines to Hector: a "Look at Me Now" speech to a "Never Was" loser.
If Pete Oscowitz excelled at one thing best (and he excelled at many things), it was pulling the truth from a web of complications and falsities. He could hone in on a riddle, weigh the arguments for a multitude of solutions, then solve it. That there could be more than one valid solution to any given problem was a paradox he liked to rationalize by explaining that there could only be one best solution to any given problem. It was with this kind of mindset that Pete came to know that Russell had spoken the truth when he’d said that they should find new friends.
It was an idea, really. Easier said than done. The reality was that Riley was too small and he too old: the proverbial victim of time and space. In a town of seven thousand people, who could he possibly meet that he hasn’t spoken to a hundred times already and grown to despise? He was more than aware of his outsider status, and he knew that he should just be content that anybody at all wanted to be his friend. Find new ones? Ridiculous—well, for right now. There was always college. Two years wasn’t that long to wait.
Nearing the long curve in Johnson Avenue, Pete checked his face in the rearview mirror for the visage of a crybaby, but his tears had dried and his eyes were clear. Past the curve but before the road bled into Main Street, he hooked a left onto opulent Deer Street.
Outside, the sun sat low and the cicadas drummed mellowly in the oak branch ceiling overhead. Passing the Whitford’s house, he noticed Russell’s pickup parked in the driveway under a drooping crepe myrtle.
How the hell did he beat me back?
The Oscowitz’s house sat across the street from the Whitford’s and one over. Pete brought the Toyota up the undulating driveway and parked it behind his dad’s Corvette. He checked himself in the mirror one last time, got out, and headed inside.
His father, Joel, and mother, Sarah, were finishing their dinner at the large cherry wood table when Pete came in through the back door. Remnants of the day’s light leaked through an etched picture window to Pete’s left, throwing random rainbows over his parents’ shirts and faces. Pete found the play of optics more than a little unsettling, though he couldn’t exactly say why.
"Hey, Pete. How’s it going?" Joel asked, looking up, a spectral smudge settling on the puffy skin below his right eye.
Pete moved to block the sunlight. "Alright, I guess."
"Are you hungry?" Sarah asked meekly.
"No, I ate at Hector’s"
"Hector’s!" Joel bellowed. "How’s that kid doing? He still cooking up that mean barbeque of his?"
"Yep."
Joel turned to his wife. "What I wouldn’t give to be able to grill like that boy." Then to his son: "Did you bring us any leftovers?"
Pete felt his sinuses begin to bubble. "Sorry. Mike and Rusty took them all."
Joel stole a quick glance at Sarah. "That’s all right. We’ll get ‘em next time."