Rumble Fish by S. E. Hinton Page A

tell him about the movie, but he interrupted me with “Raided? Police raid?” He was quiet for a little while, then said, “Rusty-James, if you’re arrested or something, can you refuse bail? I mean, can’t you stay in jail if you’d rather do that than go home?”
    â€œWhat are you talkin’ about?”
    â€œIf my father had to come to the jailhouse and get me, I’d rather stay there. I mean it. I’d rather stay in jail.”
    â€œAw, relax,” I said. “Nothin’ is gonna happen.” I lit up a cigarette and put my feet up on the back of the chair in front of me. Could I help it if somebody was sitting there? The person in the seat turned around and gave me a dirty look. I looked back at him like there was nothing I’d rather do than bash his face in. He moved over two seats.
    â€œThat was pretty good,” said the Motorcycle Boy. “Did you ever think of trying out for a chameleon?”
    â€œI don’t know them,” I said, kind of proud of myself. “Where’s their turf?”
    For a minute I heard Steve trying to smother his laughter. Hell, I could hear both of them laughing, but the movie got started, so I didn’t pay any attention.
    The very beginning of the movie was just some people talking. I figured it wouldn’t be too long before we got to the good stuff, and it wasn’t, but by that time Steve wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. See, the Motorcycle Boy never watched movies. He watched the people in the audience. I’d been to movies before with him, so it didn’t bother me, but now Steve was looking at the people, too, to see what was so interesting. There wasn’t anything interesting, just some old men, some college kids, some people who had drifted in off the streets, and what looked like some rich kids from the suburbs, slumming. It was the usual people. I knew that was one of the Motorcycle Boy’s weird habits, but I hated for Steve to miss parts of the movie, especially since I was sure he hadn’t been to a skin flick before. So I poked him in the ribs and said, “You’re missin’ out on somethin’, kid.”
    When he looked at the screen he froze. It was my turn to laugh.
    â€œAre they faking that?” he asked in a strangled voice.
    â€œI doubt it,” I said. “Would you?”
    â€œYou mean,” his voice rose slightly, “that people
film
that?”
    â€œNaw, this is live from Madison Square Garden. Sure, they film it.”
    He sat there for a few minutes more, then jumped up hurriedly.
    â€œI gotta go to the john,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
    â€œSteve!” I hollered at him, but he was gone. After about ten minutes I knew he wasn’t coming back.
    â€œCome on,” I said to the Motorcycle Boy. Outside it was almost as dark as in the movie house, until you got used to the colored lights. I found Steve plastered up against a wall, a sick look on his face.
    â€œWell,” I said. “What happened?”
    â€œNothing. I don’t know. A guy just asked me if I liked the movie. What’s scary about that?”
    It was like he was talking to himself.
    â€œI was gonna tell you.” I took the wine bottle out of my black leather jacket. “You never go to the john in those places. I mean, never.”
    Steve gave me a startled look. “So it
was
scary? I didn’t just make it up—I mean, is there really something to be scared of?”
    â€œYep,” I said. Steve looked like he was going to throw up. I thought another drink might help him. It did seem to perk him up some.
    â€œI didn’t mean to make you guys miss the movie,” he said.
    â€œWe ain’t missin’ nothin’. I seen better.”
    We went down the block. The Motorcycle Boy turned to walk backwards a few steps.
    â€œSin City,” he read the theater marquee cheerfully. “Adults Only.”
    We