mad. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Little kid, my ass.” Dekker’s face twisted. “Well, I was a kid too, but which kid got the short end? Who got sent away? Wasn’t you . . . even though we know all about you, right? I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed your aunt your own self. Ten to one, she took a look at something you drew and she couldn’t stand what she saw and—”
That’s when I punched Dekker in the mouth.
VII
So, okay, that wasn’t bright. Actually, it was suicidal. Or maybe I had to stop Dekker from talking because every word... I didn’t need to hear from Dekker what I’d already thought of myself.
My fist connected with his nose, and it felt like a bomb went off in my hand. The edge of his teeth cut across my knuckles, and fire streaked up my hand. Hitting Dekker hurt worse than I could’ve imagined, and I felt the blow shiver all the way up my arm and into my shoulder.
Dekker staggered. He lost his grip on the can of softener. The can flew in a short heavy arc before bursting open against his bike. A gurgling gush of yellowish goo drooled over the black body and chrome exhaust pipes like thick snot.
The other sandrats had gone dead quiet. Then they slid off their bikes.
“You
fuck
!” Blood trickled from one of Dekker’s nostrils. His face flushed an angry purple. “You fucking ruined my bike!”
His guys moved in, and then they were crowding me back against the barn, probably so Dekker would have a nice solid surface while he whaled on me for as long as he liked. I saw him coming, and it was like this awful slow motion of a nightmare where the monster’s coming and you know you’ve got to run, but the monster’s gaining....
“I’m going to cut off your fucking nuts,” said Dekker. There was a glint of steel, an audible snick, and then I saw the knife.
“N-no,” I said. I had nowhere to go but back, and in another second, I felt wood dig into my back. The knife in Dekker’s fist looked like a scimitar. “Please, I’ll pay for it. I’ll do anything you want....”
“Yeah, you will.” Dekker’s teeth were a smeary orange. His fist flashed out and back, and then a second later, a line of fire sizzled along my right forearm. “You’re gonna pay
and
you’re gonna do whatever I say.”
Bright red blood welled from the slice—a long one—in my flesh. I clapped a hand over the cut. My teeth were chattering, and my face was wet with cold sweat. “I . . .”
“Shut up.” The knife flickered again, and this time, I screamed as a seam of blood striped my left bicep.
“Hey!” One of Dekker’s guys—Curly—was looking over his shoulder, and now I heard it too: engine grumble and the pop of gravel. Curly said, “Cool it. There’s a car . . . shit, it’s a cruiser.”
“Everyone stay cool,” ordered Dekker, and then he crowded in. I cringed back, but his knife had disappeared. He thrust his face toward mine until we were inches apart. His hot breath slashed my face. “Open your mouth about the knife, and you better hope I don’t ever find you.”
“Hey!” Justin was out of his cruiser, striding toward us. “Hey, you! Dekker! Back off!”
“We’re cool, it’s cool, Brandt.” Dekker stepped away and turned, hands up, palms out. He looked back at me. “We’re cool, right?”
Yeah. We were cool.
After Dekker and Curly and Larry growled off on their motorcycles—after I agreed with some version that had me nearly falling off the scaffolding, knocking over the softener all over Dekker’s bike, and snagging my arms on nails—Justin said, “I’m gonna have to tell your uncle about this. I mean, I gotta turn in a report, and if Dekker presses charges . . .”
“He won’t press charges.” I was so dizzy the world tilted. “You heard him. All I got to do is fix his bike. What’s another paint job?” I tried a grin, but the world spun and I swayed.
“Hey.” Justin moved in, wrapped a hand around my left forearm below a band
“Little kid, my ass.” Dekker’s face twisted. “Well, I was a kid too, but which kid got the short end? Who got sent away? Wasn’t you . . . even though we know all about you, right? I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed your aunt your own self. Ten to one, she took a look at something you drew and she couldn’t stand what she saw and—”
That’s when I punched Dekker in the mouth.
VII
So, okay, that wasn’t bright. Actually, it was suicidal. Or maybe I had to stop Dekker from talking because every word... I didn’t need to hear from Dekker what I’d already thought of myself.
My fist connected with his nose, and it felt like a bomb went off in my hand. The edge of his teeth cut across my knuckles, and fire streaked up my hand. Hitting Dekker hurt worse than I could’ve imagined, and I felt the blow shiver all the way up my arm and into my shoulder.
Dekker staggered. He lost his grip on the can of softener. The can flew in a short heavy arc before bursting open against his bike. A gurgling gush of yellowish goo drooled over the black body and chrome exhaust pipes like thick snot.
The other sandrats had gone dead quiet. Then they slid off their bikes.
“You
fuck
!” Blood trickled from one of Dekker’s nostrils. His face flushed an angry purple. “You fucking ruined my bike!”
His guys moved in, and then they were crowding me back against the barn, probably so Dekker would have a nice solid surface while he whaled on me for as long as he liked. I saw him coming, and it was like this awful slow motion of a nightmare where the monster’s coming and you know you’ve got to run, but the monster’s gaining....
“I’m going to cut off your fucking nuts,” said Dekker. There was a glint of steel, an audible snick, and then I saw the knife.
“N-no,” I said. I had nowhere to go but back, and in another second, I felt wood dig into my back. The knife in Dekker’s fist looked like a scimitar. “Please, I’ll pay for it. I’ll do anything you want....”
“Yeah, you will.” Dekker’s teeth were a smeary orange. His fist flashed out and back, and then a second later, a line of fire sizzled along my right forearm. “You’re gonna pay
and
you’re gonna do whatever I say.”
Bright red blood welled from the slice—a long one—in my flesh. I clapped a hand over the cut. My teeth were chattering, and my face was wet with cold sweat. “I . . .”
“Shut up.” The knife flickered again, and this time, I screamed as a seam of blood striped my left bicep.
“Hey!” One of Dekker’s guys—Curly—was looking over his shoulder, and now I heard it too: engine grumble and the pop of gravel. Curly said, “Cool it. There’s a car . . . shit, it’s a cruiser.”
“Everyone stay cool,” ordered Dekker, and then he crowded in. I cringed back, but his knife had disappeared. He thrust his face toward mine until we were inches apart. His hot breath slashed my face. “Open your mouth about the knife, and you better hope I don’t ever find you.”
“Hey!” Justin was out of his cruiser, striding toward us. “Hey, you! Dekker! Back off!”
“We’re cool, it’s cool, Brandt.” Dekker stepped away and turned, hands up, palms out. He looked back at me. “We’re cool, right?”
Yeah. We were cool.
After Dekker and Curly and Larry growled off on their motorcycles—after I agreed with some version that had me nearly falling off the scaffolding, knocking over the softener all over Dekker’s bike, and snagging my arms on nails—Justin said, “I’m gonna have to tell your uncle about this. I mean, I gotta turn in a report, and if Dekker presses charges . . .”
“He won’t press charges.” I was so dizzy the world tilted. “You heard him. All I got to do is fix his bike. What’s another paint job?” I tried a grin, but the world spun and I swayed.
“Hey.” Justin moved in, wrapped a hand around my left forearm below a band
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