Crazy Dangerous

  10

  A Marked Man

  If you thought I looked bad lying almost dead by the side of the road, well, you should’ve seen me the morning after. You ever see a piece of fruit—an orange, say, or a peach—that’s gone rotten? You know, maybe it fell behind the sofa and nobody noticed it, and now you move the sofa and there it is and it’s been lying there for weeks and it’s all purple and yellow and discolored and saggy and swollen in some places and dented in others? Well, that’s what my face looked like—and the rest of me didn’t look much better.

  The pain was worse than before too. Whatever had ached and stung when I went to sleep was now a throbbing torture. Plus I practically creaked like an old door when I tried to move. I would’ve liked to stay home for the day and recuperate, but there was no chance of that. If I even suggested to my mom I might need a day off, the whole hysteria of the night before would have started over again. Easier just to gut it out.

  Riding my bike to school was no picnic. Every time the pedals went around, the pain shot up through my legs. Every breath I took hurt my chest. My backpack hurt my back and shoulders. Basically, everything I did hurt something somewhere.

  I traveled mostly on the backroads, down quiet lanes with small houses on small squares of lawn. No one was around except a few delivery guys. That’s the way I wanted it. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions—not if I could avoid it.

  But worse than the pain and embarrassment was the thought of what was going to happen next.

  “You’re a marked man now. This is just the beginning.”

  My brother’s words repeated themselves over and over in my mind. I knew he was right. Jeff Winger was my enemy forever now, and he was not a good enemy to have. He was tough and mean and relentless, and he’d never forget. I could just imagine what it was going to be like at school. Always on the lookout for him. Always waiting for what was going to happen next. And then when something did happen, it wouldn’t just be between me and Jeff anymore. Because I remembered what my dad had said too.

  “If anything else comes of this, like Jeff comes looking for revenge or something or even threatens you—or anything at all—and you don’t tell me about it right away . . .”

  In other words, if Jeff started to terrorize me and I kept it to myself and tried to handle it without bringing in Dad, I’d have Dad after me too, which was worse. I think this is what they mean by being “caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  The entrance to the high school came into sight down the road. There’s just a fence with a gate leading into a big parking lot. Then on the far side of the lot, there’s your usual two-story, brick-and-glass high school building.

  Painful as it was, I took a deep breath.

  Do right. Fear nothing, I told myself.

  I watched the school get closer and closer. I felt my stomach twisting with fear and suspense. I was pretty sure this was going to be a majorly bad day.

  I put my bike in one of the bike racks on one side of the parking lot. I flinched as I straightened my backpack on my bruised shoulders. I took another deep and painful breath, ready to approach the school.

  Here we go, I thought.

  I walked through the parking lot toward the front of the school. There’s a walkway there. The walkway leads from the parking lot over the front lawn, then divides in two and circles around a tall flagpole. The school bus stops at the curb at the head of the path and kids get out and start walking up. Some kids are dropped off there by their parents. The seniors park in the lot and come up the walk as well. And other kids walk straight in from the road or bike in and lock up their bikes in the racks and come to the walkway from the side like I did. In the end, though, everyone ends up on that front walk, the whole school crowd. It becomes like a big river of kids flowing toward the school—dividing in two to flow around the flagpole—then coming together again for the final stretch to the front door.

  So I reached the end of the lot and started heading to the walkway to join the big river of kids. As I stepped over the curb, someone—I never saw who was first—started clapping. I didn’t really notice it right away. You know, everyone was talking and laughing and there was all this general noise around and the clapping sort of blended in with that. But then another kid started clapping too. Then another. Then more. And after a while, I did hear it. You couldn’t help but hear it. I looked toward the sound.

  A group of seniors was standing at the head of the path, right next to me. There were about six or seven of them. They had stopped walking into school and were just standing there, clapping, as if they were standing on the sidelines of a football game or something, cheering on the team. But they weren’t looking at a football game. They were looking at me. I checked. I glanced over my shoulder because I thought there might be someone behind me. But no, it was me, all right. They were clapping for me.

  And now other kids turned to see what was happening. They followed the seniors’ gazes to see what they were clapping for. And what did they see? They saw me! Beat-up-bruised-purple-and-yellow-rotten-piece-of-fruit me.

  And those kids stopped where they were—and they started clapping too.

  The applause spread from the parking lot all the way to the front door of the school. Everyone stopped where he was. The entire river of kids came to a standstill. Every kid there—there must’ve been hundreds of them—turned to look at me. They were all smiling. They were all nodding. They were all clapping. Hundreds of students from Sawnee High School giving me a welcoming ovation.

  And okay, some of the applause was kind of ironic. Like, you know: clap, clap, clap. I mean, they’d all seen the video of me getting pounded into the earth on Facebook. They all knew I probably wasn’t going to be starring in the next superhero movie. Unless it was called Beatdown Man or something. But at the same time the applause was ironic, it was somehow—well, not ironic too. Because I had stood up to Jeff and his thugs, after all. And while maybe Jennifer Sales didn’t have all that many friends—or any friends—Mark Sales did. All the kids liked Mark. All the kids wanted Mark to like them. Mark was a track star, a High School Hero. So standing up for his sister made me kind of a hero as well.

  The kids called to me as I passed by:

  “Way to go, Sam!”

  “Way to get kicked around the block, tough guy!”

  “You’re an all-American hero, my son.”

  “You’re a great man—and you look like the back end of a baboon!”

  “High five.”

  And all the while, the clapping continued.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how to react to it all. After a while I waved. Which was pretty idiotic, I guess. I mean, what was I? The president passing in his motorcade or something? But it was all I could think of. So I waved and bowed as ironically as I knew how and just kept walking past the applauding crowd.

  “Nice going, Spider-Man.”

  “Gimme it low, buddy.”

  “Very cool bruises, dude.”

  Kids patted my back and shook my hand and grabbed my shoulder—which, let me tell you, was more painful than I can possibly describe. Still, even with the irony, it was pretty cool. The whole school clapping like that? Clapping for me? It was very cool.

  I was practically grinning as I stepped to the front door with all the kids congratulating me on every side. Then I walked through the doors into the school.

  And there was more. There were more kids, more applause. And also, Mark Sales himself was standing there. He was standing in front of everybody as if he had been waiting for me to arrive. Not just Mark but Nathan and Justin too—the other cool guys from the track team.

  Mark stepped up to me with Nathan and Justin on either side of him as the other kids applauded. Mark did not look ironic at all. He lifted his fist and held it out to me. I bumped my fist against his. Mark smiled with his sparkling teeth.

  “You’re the man,” he said. And remember, this is Mark Sales talking, so when he says you’re the man, it means something because
, well, he’s the man. “Thanks,” he added. “Thanks for taking care of my sister.”

  “No, no,” I said, “forget it. What else was I gonna do?”

  “I won’t forget it, buddy,” he said. “I won’t ever forget it. Understand?”

  Nathan and Justin bumped fists with me too. This was no small thing. Mark and Nathan and Justin were good friends to have. They were right up there with the most popular kids in the school, for one thing. And for another, they were big, tough athletes. Nobody dared to mess with them.

  “Listen,” said Mark. He leaned toward me. He dropped his voice. “If you’re worried about Jeff—about what he might do—don’t be. Understand?”

  “Okay,” I said doubtfully.

  “I mean it,” said Mark. “I had a conversation with him this morning. Jeff will not come near you ever again. Not ever.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” said Mark. He said it like he meant it too.

  I felt a strong wave of relief wash over me. It was one thing to know that Mark would stand with me if there was any trouble. That was very good news in itself. But to think there might not be any trouble at all—nothing to have to tell my dad about—that was even better. Much better.

  “That’s great,” I said to Mark. “That’s really great.”

  “All right,” said Mark. We bumped fists again. “Gotta get to class. See you at lunchtime, all right?”

  “Sure,” I said. Was that an invitation to eat lunch at Mark’s table? Also very cool.

  As Mark and Nathan and Justin swaggered away, I just stood there for a moment, looking after them, amazed. Other kids went by, patting me on the back. Girls smiled at me and waved. I thought, Hey, instead of being a marked man, it turns out I’m Mark’s man. Cool.

  Smiling to myself, I headed to homeroom.

  The whole day went like that. People smiling at me, congratulating me, kidding me. Even the teachers. I mean, the teachers couldn’t actually say anything out loud—that might make it sound like they approved of fighting and, of course, no one approves of fighting. But they kind of gave me these smiles as I passed them in the halls. And Coach Jackson even gave me a thumbs-up, though he hid it close to his chest as he walked by so no one else would see.

  So here was this day I thought was going to turn out to be some kind of nightmare, and instead it was one of the best days I ever had. The highlight? That’s easy. Right after second period I made a pit stop at my locker to empty one group of incredibly heavy books out of my backpack and replace them with another group of even heavier books. And as I was in the process of doing that, I glanced up and saw Zoe Miller coming down the hall toward me.

  I was too shy to actually say hello to her, so I sort of averted my eyes, pretending I hadn’t seen her. But she came right up to me. Just sort of stood there next to me, holding her books.

  “Hi, Sam,” she said.

  I believe I’ve already mentioned Zoe’s high cuteness factor. The black hair, the green eyes, the smile that looks like she invented smiling. Close up like that—and directed at me—it all had a very powerful effect. The powerful effect was that I forgot how to speak English. Or anything else for that matter. I had to think about it for a very long ten seconds before I finally managed to come up with the stunningly clever reply: “Hi.” Then, in a flash of inspiration, I added, “Zoe.”

  “We both have history next,” she said. “I thought we might as well walk over there together.”

  If I could’ve remembered any words, I might have said something like, “Sure, that’d be great, Zoe.” But I couldn’t, so I didn’t. Instead, I just sort of nodded at her like a bobblehead Sam Hopkins doll.

  Then we started walking together down the hall side by side.

  “So you’re, like, the star of the whole school today,” Zoe said as we went. “Everybody’s talking about you.”

  I shrugged. Fortunately, my language skills were slowly beginning to return to me. “It’s kind of dumb, I guess,” I said. “I mean, everybody’s congratulating me for getting beaten up!”

  “I don’t think that’s dumb,” said Zoe.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Under the circumstances, I don’t think it’s dumb at all.”

  Well then, I guess I didn’t think it was dumb either.

  “I bet your parents were really angry about it, though,” Zoe went on. “Especially your dad.”

  “Actually, no, my dad was pretty cool about it. My mom burst into flames a little, but my dad sort of understood.”

  “Wow, really? I would have thought—you know, him being a preacher and all, he’d be all, like, turn the other cheek and everything.”

  “Well, he is, sure. But he says that’s supposed to stop you from fighting out of pride or anger, you know. It’s not supposed to stop you from standing up for what’s right when you have to.”

  “Huh,” she said. “That is cool.”

  We turned a corner and started down the hall toward our classroom.

  “You know what’s kind of funny?” Zoe went on. “I always felt a little nervous about talking to you because of your dad.”

  “Really? I always kind of wondered about that . . .”

  “Yeah, I don’t know why. I guess . . . I guess I sort of felt like because you were all, like, religious and everything, maybe you’d expect people to be perfect . . .”

  She turned that smile of hers on me, not to mention those green eyes, and I wanted to tell her she actually was perfect. But instead I said, “Look, could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. I guess. Like what?”

  “Just . . . don’t be nervous around me anymore. Okay? Because if you’re nervous, then I get nervous, and when I get nervous I act all stupid and then you’ll think I’m stupid when I’m really just nervous because you’re nervous.”

  Zoe nodded thoughtfully. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “No, me either. But that sort of proves my point.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I guess I won’t be nervous then. And you won’t expect me to be perfect.”

  “Right,” I said. Although you are, I thought. Only I didn’t say that, because I was too nervous.

  Zoe and I were both smiling as we walked into the classroom. In fact, to be honest, I went on smiling a long time after that. In fact, I had to force the smile off my face eventually so I wouldn’t look like a clown with rigor mortis.

  But the smile kept coming back. Especially after school was over and I was biking home by myself. I kept thinking about the day—thinking about it so much I almost forgot how sore I was, almost forgot how much every part of my body was throbbing and hurting. Almost. I kept seeing images of the kids applauding outside the school . . . Mark Sales bumping fists with me and telling me Jeff wouldn’t bother me anymore . . . And Zoe and me walking to class together . . . And Mark and Justin and me having lunch . . . And Zoe and me walking to class together . . . although maybe I already mentioned that.

  Anyway, I was smiling and remembering as I was biking home thinking about it all.

  And then a strange thing happened.

  I had just come onto Maple Street, my street, only a couple of blocks from where I live. The afternoon was cloudy, gray, getting dark kind of early. There was a wind rising and it looked like it was going to rain. This one stretch of Maple I was on was thick with trees, but there weren’t that many houses. With the sky getting dark and the dead winter branches swaying and whispering in the wind, it was a little bit spooky-looking.

  Maybe it was just because of that, but I began to feel that somebody was watching me. I had that feeling you get, you know, on the back of your neck, when somebody stares at you from behind. I glanced over my shoulder, but there was nobody there.

  I didn’t stop. I figured I was just letting myself get spooked. In spite of what Mark said, I guess I was still a little worried about Jeff, worried he might wait for me in some secluded spot—like this one—in order to take his revenge.

  I rode a little faster
the rest of the way home, even though my body was still aching like crazy from the beating.

  When I got there, I walked around to the side of the house. There’s a broad alley of grass there and just at the end of it, at the corner of the house, there’s a little covered bike port next to an old willow tree. It’s a deserted little corner. Getting dark now as the rain clouds moved in above. The willow tree waving and whispering in the wind. I still had that strange feeling that someone was watching me. I kept looking around me, but there was no one in sight.

  I wheeled the bike into the port and locked it up. Then I turned to go into the house.

  And there was Jennifer Sales, standing right next to me, staring.

  11

  What Jennifer Saw

  I nearly jumped out of my own skin—that’s how startled I was to see her. It was as if she’d appeared out of nowhere, and the way she was staring at me with that pale, serious face of hers—just standing and staring without saying anything—well, it was eerie. Very. It was like having a ghost stare at you.

  “Oh!” I said, nearly choking on the sound. “Uh . . . hi, Jennifer.”

  She went on staring another long moment. Then her lips turned up in a shy little smile. She lifted her hand in a shy little wave. “Sam Hopkins,” she said. And then she repeated my name: “Sam Hopkins.”

  “That’s me, all right.”

  She smiled and nodded for a long time. Then she said, “Thank you for stopping Jeff. The Winger. From hurting me. He was mean.”

  “Yeah, he was,” I said. “I’m sorry he did that. I’m really glad you got out of there all right.”

  “Because you helped me.”

  “Well . . .”

  She lifted her hand and reached for my face as if to touch the bruises there. I guess I kind of flinched a little. The bruises were still really tender.

  But in any case, Jennifer didn’t touch me. Her finger just sort of lingered close to my cheek, then dropped back to her side.

  “They hurt you,” she said sadly. “They hurt you because of me.”