Warrior Angel by Robert Lipsyte Page B

that, he’s smiling, the crowd is all jiggly, clapping for him. Starkey vaults over the steel railing a couple of times, landing back on the board, spinning once, and Sonny is still keeping up with him.
    Then Starkey takes him to the rim, a ledge of concrete maybe six inches wide that runs along the edge of an old road. On the other side of the rim is a long drop into acres of rustedmachinery, jagged, all the old mill equipment that got thrown out over the years, that the town hasn’t yet found the money to haul away. A garden of spears.
    Starkey starts slow again, a few easy Ollies, a half spin that has him moving backward, another half spin that has him facing front, a full spin off the board, follow the leader, Sonny, and now the crowd is getting nervous but Sonny is only thinking about follow the leader so he can be leader again, and Starkey takes the board to the lips of the rim, first on the road side, then on the jagged-machinery side, back and forth, two wheels whining at a time, and he stamps on the tail as he goes up and comes down on the nose, one foot, no one’s ever seen this before, and suddenly he wants to stop, tell Sonny not to do this, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and everyone’s screaming as Sonny falls, head over board, into the rusty steel jungle below.

11
    S ONNY REMEMBERED the first time he had pounded up the narrow, twisting stairs of Donatelli’s Gym, at midnight, taking them two at a time, not waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He threw open the creaky old door marked GYM and Alfred Brooks was waiting for him, sitting under a single naked light bulb. When Alfred said, “What took you so long, young gentleman?” he suddenly felt safe. For the first time, he felt he had a future.
    Now he took the steps slowly, one by one, feeling each sag under his boots, complain in a woody screech. You really want to do this, Sonny? Got to. Want to? No choice. He pushed open the door.
    Same old gym, worn and dirty, stinking of sweat and liniment and the bleach that could never erase all the blood from the wooden floor. Curling on the walls were old fight posters and old signs, NO SPITTING IN THE GYM ,and PAY DUES THE FIRST OF THE MONTH, EVERY MONTH . The late-afternoon sun slanting through the filthy windows trapped tornados of dust motes in tubes of golden light. Buzzers and bells counted off three-minute rounds and one-minute rest periods.
    Boxers skipped rope, shadowboxed, slugged the heavy bags, and peppered the light bags while trainers watched them or yelled at them or gossiped with each other as if the boxers didn’t exist. He recognized most of them. Old Dave (The Fave) Reynolds, still lumbering after a heavyweight title shot, was up in the ring sparring with a younger, quicker fighter, who had two guys in suits shouting advice up to him. Guess which one’s getting the next title shot.
    The owner, Henry Johnson, tall and skinny, wearing his usual white shirt and tie, limped briskly around the big room, pulling on his little gray beard, spraying advice, snapping orders, showing a young fighter how to turn his fist on the jab, growling at a kid to pass around the water bottles. Johnson didn’t miss a thing.
    â€œWhat you want?” said Johnson.
    The room dropped dead. The shouts, thethump of the bags, the patter of feet, suddenly stopped. Everybody was looking at Sonny, ignoring the buzzers and bells.
    Johnson started moving toward him, dragging his leg. “This is no Hollywood gym, this is no Wall Street health club, so what you doing here?”
    It was a real question. Johnson stared at him stone-faced, waiting for the answer. Sonny choked it out. “Need a place to train.”
    â€œYou’re not welcome here no more.”
    A fat man hustled up, wiping his sweating moon face. “Henry, this man is heavyweight champion of the world. You got to respect the title, least hear him out.”
    â€œDon’t got to do