Rooster by Don Trembath

did.”
    â€œI know. I’ll have to talk with him about that after.”
    â€œHe started it.” She continued to lick her fingers. Her voice was deep and hard, like a man’s voice.
    â€œI know who started it, Roseann.”
    â€œIt wasn’t me.”
    â€œYou be the one to end it.”
    â€œIt wasn’t me who started it. He said goddamn hill before I did. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
    â€œThat’s good. I believe you.”
    Rooster stared at Roseann in shock.
    â€œYou got her into trouble,” said the woman who had spoken first.
    â€œIt was an accident,” said Mrs. Yuler. “I’m sure that was a sign of the nervousness that Rooster spoke about. I doubt he talks like that all the time.”
    â€œNo, he doesn’t,” said Mrs. Nixon, from the corner. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t talk like that again. Now sit down, Rooster. The interview has started.”
    Rooster reluctantly sat down. He had not meant to get anyone in trouble, but he was more determined than ever to stick with his plan.
    â€œOkay then,” said Mrs. Yuler. “Let’s start with introductions, shall we? Everyone, you already know this is Rooster. Rooster, this is Roseann, who you just met. Beside her is Dorothy-Jane-Anne. Next to her is Tim. Next to Tim is Percival. They are the Strikers.” She smiled. Rooster offered a small tight smile back. “They have questions for you, I know. Now who would like to go first? Tim? Maybe you’d like to begin?”
    Tim was extremely thin and sat hunched in his chair like an old man in a wheelchair. When she mentioned his name, he quickly sat up straight. His big wide eyes sprang to life. His voice burst with energy and excitement. “Okay, okay. All right. I’ll ask the first question. I’ll get things started.” He rubbed his hands together and began to rock back and forth in his chair. “All right then. Rooster, I’m ready to fire away! Oh boy. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. I’ve been waiting for this for a long long time.”
    â€œTim,” said Mrs. Yuler patiently. “Just ask the question.”
    â€œOkay, okay. All right then. Here we go, boy. Here we go. Rock ’n’ roll. That’s what I like to say. Okay. I would like to know, I would like to know if you like pizza.”
    Rooster, anticipating something more challenging, hesitated before answering. How can I screw this up enough to get out of here? he thought to himself.
    â€œAny kind,” said Tim, still rocking in his chair. “Pepperoni. Ham and pineapple. Super deluxe. Black olives. Tomatoes. Green peppers. You name it. Any kind. Any kind at all.”
    â€œCheese,” said Roseann, cutting in. “That’s the best kind.”
    â€œNo it’s not,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne, staring at Rooster.
    â€œYes,” said Roseann.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt is so.”
    â€œNo it’s not.”
    â€œLadies,” said Mrs. Yuler, “stay out of it. Let Rooster answer the question. You will all get a chance to talk.”
    Rooster cleared his throat. “Uhm.” He still wasn’t sure what to say. “What was the question again?”
    â€œI would like to know if … do you like pizza?” said Tim. “Any kind. Any kind at all. Any kind they can make.”
    In truth, pizza was Rooster’s favorite food on earth, which is why he was so frustrated every time Irving ate all the leftovers. “I like leftover pizza,” he said suddenly. “I like cold pizza. I hate it when it’s hot. It burns my mouth all the time.”
    Tim frowned and stopped rocking in his chair. Roseann pulled her right index finger out of her mouth. Dorothy-Jane-Anne continued to stare at him.
    â€œYou don’t like hot pizza?” said Tim.
    â€œHate it.”
    â€œIt burns your mouth?” said