Rumble Fish by S. E. Hinton Page B

went bopping on down the street. The street was jammed with cruising cars. You could hear music blasting out of almost every bar. There were lots of people.
    â€œEverything is so cool…” I waved my cigarette at the noise. I couldn’t explain how I felt. Jivey, juiced up, just alive. “The lights, I mean, and all the people.”
    I tried to remember why I liked lots of people. “I wonder—how come? Maybe because I don’t like bein’ by myself. I mean, man, I can’t stand it. Makes me feel tight, like I’m bein’ choked all over.”
    Neither one of them said anything. I thought maybe they hadn’t even heard me, but all of a sudden the Motorcycle Boy said, “When you were two years old, and I was six, Mother decided to leave. She took me with her. The old man went on a three-day drunk when he found out. He’s told me that was the first time he ever got drunk. I imagined he liked it. Anyway, he left you alone in the house for those three days. We didn’t live where we do now. It was a very large house. She abandoned me eventually, and they took me back to the old man. He’d sobered up enough to go home. I suppose you developed your fear of being alone then.”
    What he was saying didn’t make any sense to me. Trying to understand it was like trying to see through fog. Sometimes, usually on the streets, he talked normal. Then sometimes he’d go on like he was reading out of a book, using words and sentences nobody ever used when they were just talking.
    I took a long swallow of wine. “You…” I paused, then started again: “You never told me that.”
    â€œI didn’t think it would do you any good to find out.”
    â€œYou told me now.” Something nagged at the back of my mind, like a memory.
    â€œSo I have.” He stopped to admire a cycle parked on the street. He looked it over very carefully. I stood there fidgeting on the sidewalk, zipping the zipper of my jacket up and down. That was a habit I had. I had never been afraid of the Motorcycle Boy. Everybody else was, even people who hated him, even people who said they weren’t. But I had never been afraid of him till now. It was an odd feeling, being afraid of him.
    â€œYou got anything else to tell me?”
    The Motorcycle Boy looked up. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said thoughtfully. “I saw the old lady when I was out in California.”
    I almost lost my balance and fell off the curb. Steve grabbed hold of my jacket to steady me, or maybe himself. He was swaying a little, too.
    â€œYeah?” I said. “She’s in California? How’d you know that?”
    â€œI saw her on television.”
    For a second I looked around, trying to make sure everything was real, that I wasn’t dreaming or flipped out. I looked at the Motorcycle Boy to make sure he hadn’t suddenly gone nuts. Everything was real, I wasn’t dreaming, and the Motorcycle Boy was watching me with the laughter shining dark out of his eyes.
    â€œYeah, I was sitting in a comfortable bar, having a cold beer, minding my own business, watching one of those award shows. When the camera went over the audience, I saw her. I thought I could find her if I went to California, and I did.”
    It was hard for me to understand what he meant. Our mother—I couldn’t remember her. It was like she was dead. I’d always thought of her as being dead. Nobody ever said anything about her. The only thing I knew was the Motorcycle Boy—my father telling the Motorcycle Boy, “You are exactly like your mother.” I thought he meant she had wine-colored hair and midnight eyes and maybe she was tall. Now, all of a sudden I thought maybe he didn’t mean just
look
like her.
    I felt the sweat break out in my armpits and trickle down my back. “Yeah?” I said. I think, maybe, if the street had caved in under me, or the buildings around us had