go the easier way.
“Em’s in charge,” O’Malley says. He sounds tired. “We follow her lead.”
Spingate sighs and shrugs. Bello nods reluctantly. Aramovsky keeps looking down the new hallway as if it’s paved with the cupcake of his dreams. None of them want to go my way, but they seem resigned to my decision.
All save for Yong.
“I don’t want to follow Em’s lead anymore,” he says. He crosses his arms. “I think it’s my turn to be in charge.”
“We don’t take
turns,
” O’Malley says. “This isn’t a game.”
Yong points at me. There’s something petulant in the gesture, something mean, and for a moment I see a twelve-year-old bully wearing an adult’s body.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Yong says. He looks at me, holds out his palm. “You tried, Em, but you failed. It’s my turn now, so give me the knife.”
And just like that, the twelve-year-old is gone. I’m looking at a grown man, a lean, strong man who isn’t going to take no for an answer.
He wiggles his fingers inward.
“Give it to me,” Yong says. “If you don’t, I’ll take it from you. You won’t like that.”
Spingate puts her hands on her hips.
“Quit being a jerk, Yong. Em’s in charge, you—”
Yong’s hands are so fast I barely see him move: he shoves Spingate, hard. She crashes against the wall and falls to her butt. She looks at him in wide-eyed surprise.
She doesn’t try to get up.
Bello and Aramovsky press lightly against each other and back away, watching the sudden conflict.
I should say something, I know it, but my mouth doesn’t move.
O’Malley’s does.
“That’s enough,” he says.
Yong isn’t the only grown man here. O’Malley holds the scepter in his right hand. He seems uncomfortable with the jeweled metal, like he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do with it in this situation.
He takes a step toward Yong.
“Hitting people is bad,” O’Malley says. “Tell Spingate you’re sorry.”
Yong makes his
pfft
sound. “Or what? You going to make me apologize?”
O’Malley’s fingers flex on the scepter. His shirt hangs open: the last button must have popped free.
“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says. “I just…we don’t hit each other. Em’s in charge, okay?”
Yong rushes at O’Malley, cocking his right fist as he does and slamming it into the bigger boy’s nose. O’Malley’s head rocks back. He drops awkwardly, sitting on his left foot, his right leg sticking out. Yong twists his shoulders, throws a left fist that hammers O’Malley’s right eye.
O’Malley drops to his side. The scepter slides from his grip. He doesn’t move.
Yong looks at me.
“I’m in charge now, Em.” He again holds out his palm. “Give me the knife.”
I see him, see the star on his forehead, the sneer on his lips. He thinks he can do anything he wants. He thinks he can push people around.
He thinks he
owns
people.
In that instant, I hate him. I want him to hurt.
He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “No? Don’t think your turn is over? You led us
nowhere,
Em. I’m hungry and we’re going to do it my way. Give me the knife, you stupid circle girl, or else.”
Hate him. Hate him
hate him
.
I go cold inside. Cold and calm.
Yong shrugs. “Have it your way.”
He strides toward me, confident and dangerous. Spingate is still sitting, staring. Aramovsky and Bello do nothing. Yong cocks back his fist, he sneers in fury and arrogance, he leans forward to punch at me…
He stops, fist still hovering in the air.
His eyes are wide, his mouth hangs open.
He looks down.
So do I.
The knife…the handle is in my hand, but the blade…
The blade is buried in his belly.
ELEVEN
B lazing red spreads across his white shirt, flowing down, mostly, but also rising up, wetness winding through the fabric.
I didn’t even feel the blade go in. I didn’t. It was just
there,
already inside him, like it had always been there.
The
“Em’s in charge,” O’Malley says. He sounds tired. “We follow her lead.”
Spingate sighs and shrugs. Bello nods reluctantly. Aramovsky keeps looking down the new hallway as if it’s paved with the cupcake of his dreams. None of them want to go my way, but they seem resigned to my decision.
All save for Yong.
“I don’t want to follow Em’s lead anymore,” he says. He crosses his arms. “I think it’s my turn to be in charge.”
“We don’t take
turns,
” O’Malley says. “This isn’t a game.”
Yong points at me. There’s something petulant in the gesture, something mean, and for a moment I see a twelve-year-old bully wearing an adult’s body.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Yong says. He looks at me, holds out his palm. “You tried, Em, but you failed. It’s my turn now, so give me the knife.”
And just like that, the twelve-year-old is gone. I’m looking at a grown man, a lean, strong man who isn’t going to take no for an answer.
He wiggles his fingers inward.
“Give it to me,” Yong says. “If you don’t, I’ll take it from you. You won’t like that.”
Spingate puts her hands on her hips.
“Quit being a jerk, Yong. Em’s in charge, you—”
Yong’s hands are so fast I barely see him move: he shoves Spingate, hard. She crashes against the wall and falls to her butt. She looks at him in wide-eyed surprise.
She doesn’t try to get up.
Bello and Aramovsky press lightly against each other and back away, watching the sudden conflict.
I should say something, I know it, but my mouth doesn’t move.
O’Malley’s does.
“That’s enough,” he says.
Yong isn’t the only grown man here. O’Malley holds the scepter in his right hand. He seems uncomfortable with the jeweled metal, like he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do with it in this situation.
He takes a step toward Yong.
“Hitting people is bad,” O’Malley says. “Tell Spingate you’re sorry.”
Yong makes his
pfft
sound. “Or what? You going to make me apologize?”
O’Malley’s fingers flex on the scepter. His shirt hangs open: the last button must have popped free.
“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says. “I just…we don’t hit each other. Em’s in charge, okay?”
Yong rushes at O’Malley, cocking his right fist as he does and slamming it into the bigger boy’s nose. O’Malley’s head rocks back. He drops awkwardly, sitting on his left foot, his right leg sticking out. Yong twists his shoulders, throws a left fist that hammers O’Malley’s right eye.
O’Malley drops to his side. The scepter slides from his grip. He doesn’t move.
Yong looks at me.
“I’m in charge now, Em.” He again holds out his palm. “Give me the knife.”
I see him, see the star on his forehead, the sneer on his lips. He thinks he can do anything he wants. He thinks he can push people around.
He thinks he
owns
people.
In that instant, I hate him. I want him to hurt.
He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “No? Don’t think your turn is over? You led us
nowhere,
Em. I’m hungry and we’re going to do it my way. Give me the knife, you stupid circle girl, or else.”
Hate him. Hate him
hate him
.
I go cold inside. Cold and calm.
Yong shrugs. “Have it your way.”
He strides toward me, confident and dangerous. Spingate is still sitting, staring. Aramovsky and Bello do nothing. Yong cocks back his fist, he sneers in fury and arrogance, he leans forward to punch at me…
He stops, fist still hovering in the air.
His eyes are wide, his mouth hangs open.
He looks down.
So do I.
The knife…the handle is in my hand, but the blade…
The blade is buried in his belly.
ELEVEN
B lazing red spreads across his white shirt, flowing down, mostly, but also rising up, wetness winding through the fabric.
I didn’t even feel the blade go in. I didn’t. It was just
there,
already inside him, like it had always been there.
The