47
DANNY
I’m lying on a mat. A blue mat. In a gym.
In our gym. My jaw aches so bad I feel it in my ears. The back of
my head must have a railroad spike pushed through it. Shouts and
curses zing back and forth above me. Thick legs and sneakers step
over and around me, sinking the mat near my body, jarring my jaw,
sending out waves of hurt. I blink, wonder how I got sand in my
eyes, because they’re gritty. Haven’t risked turning my head to
find out who the legs and sneakers belong to.
A hand descends from above and rests on my
forehead. A dusty T-shirt pats my nose. Then two hands slide under
my arms and start lifting me.
“Danny, let’s go, let’s go. Now. Now!” It’s
Bruce’s voice. I think. It’s higher and trembling like a scared
kid’s, frantic sounding, more like mine. A freaked-out kid is
channeling Bruce’s mouth, like Ronnie back from the dead, warning
me. “Let’s go. Come on!”
“Guh-go!” a different voice pushes. I know that
one.
Hands—Bruce’s hands—grapple me, dragging me
backward out of the gym, not giving me a chance to get my feet
under me. My heel snags a mat, pulling me out of Bruce’s grip, and
I fall on my ass. Bruce yanks me back up into a semi-drag and my
feet shuffle along for the ride. Everything’s fuzzy. Kurt’s back is
to us, arms outstretched, warding off . . . those . . . three. I
lose sight of Kurt as Bruce tows me through the locker-room door
violently enough that I think I must’ve somehow caused all the
trouble.
“We got to get out of here. We got to go.
Now!”
“But what about ... what about Kurt?”
“He can take care of himself,” Bruce half yelps.
“Those psychos are his friends.” I’ve never seen Bruce flat-out
scared and it terrifies me. They’ve turned him into this? It
must be hopeless.
“Hurry up, Danny. Let’s go!” Bruce’s still got hold
of me though my legs are working again. We make it out of the
locker room and start down the deserted hall.
“We can’t just abandon him,” I say. “We’ve got to
help him.”
“They almost killed me! Do you understand?” Bruce
gives a single, violent head snap like he’s whipping wet hair out
of his eyes. “They tried to kill me!” he says, like
he’s only now realizing it. “No more. I’m not dying. I will
get a gun, though. I swear to God. I will come back with a
fucking gun and shoot those fuckers.”
“We can’t leave Kurt.”
“You save him,” Bruce calls over his
shoulder as he skip-walks ahead. “Not me. Anyone even talks to
those three, I don’t speak to them anymore.” Bruce’s pace is losing
me. “I’m outta here. You coming or not?” Bruce asks but he’s
already at the end of the hallway. He turns the corner, leaving me
alone. By the time I climb the stairs, my head’s throbbing bad and
Bruce is nowhere in sight. The hallways are empty except for
“school’s out” celebration trash littering the ground. My legs
weaken. I’m not going to make it out of the building before those
three finish Kurt and get ahold of me.
Get out! Get out! Follow Bruce!
Kurt’s dying right now, downstairs in the
gym.
Go! Go!
I kick a wadded-up ball of paper out of my path.
Then I turn down the main hall and jog toward the principal’s
office. The door is locked up tight. So is every classroom door I
kick.
“Somebody!” I yell. “Somebody!” I yell again.
“Where the fuck is a teacher when you need one!?” I ask the
empty hallway. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” I holler, knowing this
has to conjure an adult out of thin air ready to stuff a bar
of soap in my mouth and assign me a week of detention. I mean, I
always get busted for cussing. Always! I take three
slow breaths, waiting.
Nada!
“Im-fucking-possible!”
I jog down the hall, my head pounding.
“Help!”